


Plenty Of Good Thieves

by Tabi_essentially



Series: Wartime verse [9]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, Established Relationship, Harm to Children, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Imprisonment, M/M, Original Character(s), PTSD, Siberia, Slash, Trains, Trust, Unbreakable!Eames, heroics, unbreakable!Arthur, vacation gone wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-29
Updated: 2012-02-29
Packaged: 2017-10-31 22:15:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 89,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tabi_essentially/pseuds/Tabi_essentially
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Eames decide to take a vacation on the Trans-Siberian express. Old, (and a few new) unknown enemies lurk in every car. Even though these people seem quite familiar with them, Arthur and Eames have no idea who they are or what they want. The other passengers--elderly couples, high-toned society families, an unruly teenage thief and her exasperated parents--are all in danger, just because two dream-criminals wanted a vacation together. Arthur and Eames refuse to let innocent people become collateral damage. They have to try to protect everyone else and each other, while battling mysterious neurological symptoms.</p><p>Still, none of it is as dangerous as the emerging memories of the things they did to each other in the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was a very long, very involved experiment. In it, I asked regular readers to challenge me to include specific--and sometimes not-so-specific--details and plot points. After every chapter, readers would prompt me to write in certain things: a broken mirror, an eagle, key phrases, Lake Baikal, Church On The Blood, Arthur in a hat, Eames with a cigar, a face in the window, chocolate, and other, really random things. 
> 
> So, while I did write the actual words to this, most of it was thought up on the spot by people who were reading it, and making things up as we went. [On Livejournal,](http://sho-no-tabi.livejournal.com/16709.html) I kept track of each and every one of these prompts at the beginnings and endings of the chapters. However, in the interest of keeping the flow, I've left them out of this posting. :)

**Chapter One – You Can Leave Your Hat On**

 

The train stood idle on the rails, teeming with people who were too rich and bored to be excited about traveling. Their apathy was contagious. Everyone seemed to be in a rotten mood, unaware of their privilege. As if their lives of comfort were a burden to them. Eames planned on relieving many of them of at least some of that burden, the poor dears. 

He also had to guard against their general foul moods. He knew he could be a sponge sometimes, and atmosphere could, if he let it, play a role in how he felt. It was part of being a forger. This trip was supposed to be fun. He wasn't going to let impatient people shoving him with their bags get in the way of that.

He also had a way of knowing exactly where Arthur was in a crowd of people at any given moment. Well, he had a way of knowing where anyone he wanted to watch was. This was part of his job description. But especially Arthur. He could put his gaze directly on him quicker than anyone.

And there Arthur stood on the platform, looking right back at him through the crowd. He stood out among the travelers. Many people were dressed all posh- this was a tour for the massively rich and influential, which was part of why they had decided on this venture – but Arthur looked finer than anyone Eames had ever seen, in gun-metal grey, and the hat that Eames had given him the last time they'd been together. He looked like the weapon that he was. Eames hadn't seen him in seven months. He was holding a few non-descript bags and shifting impatiently. When he saw Eames watching him, he offered a small smile. 

Eames met him halfway. 

"Hello, Mr. Eames," Arthur said, as if they hadn't spent most of their last meeting without clothes.

"Greetings, Arthur," Eames said, because he was nice like that, he liked to play along with Arthur's games. "You're looking fit and intimidating."

"Thank you. So are you. Nice coat."

"Thank you, Arthur." It was a nice coat, too, the olive green pea-coat that he knew Arthur liked.

"Gonna be a nice, relaxing vacation, isn't it?" Arthur said.

"Just so," Eames answered. Which wasn't strictly a lie. It was a vacation, a break from all the hardship. No one would be shooting at them, tying them up, stealing them, experimenting on them, and no one would be just plain fucking with them. If they planned to do a little bit of work on the side, then it was safe work, of the normal sort. And if they left their vacation a few thousand pounds richer, and with some perhaps ill-gotten information, well then, it would just be a more successful vacation for them than for anyone else. But a vacation nonetheless.

Arthur looked like he belonged on trains, in his posh clothes, with his hat. He looked like he needed to be sitting in a dining car, or gambling at a table, or hanging his coat on a hook in a tiny, moving room before turning to Eames and...

"Quit gawking at me," Arthur said. "There'll be time for that later on."

 _Oh yes,_ Eames thought. _Plenty of time. Nothing but time. Ten days of nothing but free time and the occasional mini-heist, and then more free time._

Christ, they were going to kill each other.

"Then, shall we?" Eames said, stepping aside on the platform so that Arthur could go first.

"Thanks," Arthur said, sweeping past him with all his bags. Arthur traveled light. Eames liked that about him. He did see the black case that hid the familiar silver briefcase, though. Of course Arthur had brought the PASIV.

They both had the ability to glide through crowds with ease. This came in handy on jobs, especially get-aways, but also in general, such as when making their way onto a crowded train. Soon they were out of the warm press of humanity and standing together in a tiny, yet very plush compartment. Eames was one hundred and twenty pounds plus a nice wristwatch richer when they got there.

Their room was mostly dark wood and burgundy dressings. A small lamp stood on an end table. There was a mini fridge, some little closets, and a window with slatted, wooden blinds.

Two beds, thankfully, bunk-bed style. The top one was suspended by chains from the ceiling. 

"Cool," Arthur said, looking at the top one. "We can switch, if you want."

"I've no problem being on the bottom," Eames said. Then he replayed his words in his head and smiled.

"I'll see to that later," Arthur said. 

Arthur took off his jacket and hung it up before starting to unpack his travel bag, setting things into tiny compartments. He had only two formal suits in garment bags, which he hung up. The rest or his clothes he left folded and packed. Eames did the same; it was wiser, in case they had to ever leave in a hurry. Eames took note of the many gadgets that Arthur carried. More gadgets than clothes, really. Laptop, phone, scanners, mics, and tiny, easily-hidden cameras...

"I can't believe you brought that with you on vacation," Eames said, eyeing one of the gadgets. He didn't mean the PASIV, or the laptop. It was a small, oval-ish game system _thing_ that Arthur was plugging into an adaptor, to plug into a European outlet, charging it.

"I'm three quarters through with one of my games," Arthur said. "I haven't had any work in about a month. It passes the time. Beats watching television."

"Television is an honorable time-vampire," Eames said. "And you can learn a lot from it. The Planet Earth series was brilliant."

"I'm sure it was," Arthur said, smirking over his shoulder. "Tell me you didn't watch Britain's Got Talent instead, though." 

"One can enjoy both."

"And anyway, games challenge your tactical thinking and reaction time. It helps when I'm not on a job."

This was Arthur's usual defense for his off-work, alone time activities. Eames liked to poke at him for it, though. Because he liked Arthur, the silly bastard. He liked his fondness for child's play and how he defended it with his fondness for crime, he liked his gangster hair, liked the fact that he wore it loose at night, when he sat cross-legged on hotel beds wearing his glasses. He liked the fact that Arthur was still wearing the hat that Eames had bought him. 

And he really, really liked the view he got when Arthur reached up to check inside a light fixture for the usual things like cameras and bugs. It stretched out the smooth line of his back under his shirt. It arched his back a little and tightened his thighs. Yes, he might kill Arthur with nothing better to do in ten days. But he was also going to fuck him silly. Silli _er_.

Arthur didn't turn around. "I can actually feel your eyes on my ass." 

"Would you care to feel my hands on it?" Eames offered.

"Once I'm done." He went about the tiny room, checking mirrors, drawer-pulls, compartments, the window, both beds and under each mattress, everywhere he could put his sly, clever fingers. 

"You're really afraid of a sex tape, aren't you?" Eames teased.

"Eames, seeing as how you already lifted over a hundred bucks from someone today and the train hasn't even moved yet, a sex tape is the least of my worries."

"Then come here," Eames said. He kept his voice casual, but he also used the tone that he knew worked on Arthur. It rarely failed him and it didn't this time, either. Arthur stopped moving, his hands stilling over the top of the door where he'd been checking for wires. He looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow arched, as if he were considering being irritated. Eames just raised his eyebrows, his expression mild.

Arthur turned around and started to take his hat off.

"No no," Eames said. "Leave it."

Arthur smiled and rolled his eyes. "You have strange quirks."

Eames turned him around and sat him on the bed.

"I'm not judging," Arthur added.

Eames sank to his knees, at Arthur's feet, and started working at the buttons of his trousers.

"Everyone has their own little... Mmm... things that they... Oh. Yes."

Eames could hear the masses of people going by outside their tiny room. Chattering, moving along like cattle, lazy and slow. Banging into their door, unaware of what was going on behind it, what would continue to go on. Unaware that many of them would be just a little poorer when they finished their tour, but too drunk to remember that they hadn't spent their money or simply misplaced their valuables. It made Eames feel happy, powerful. He gripped Arthur's hips, slid his thumbs against the sharp bones, tipped them forward.

"Oh jesus, that's good," Arthur said. He leaned back against the wall, and the brim of his hat slid down, shading his eyes. His hands clung to the maroon coverlet, messing it up.

Eames really, really did like this crazy bastard, who let him indulge in these sorts of things. He hadn't seen Arthur in more than half a year. He'd worked, but he'd been bored working alone, frustrated when he worked with people less competent. It wasn't about the money anymore. 

And, judging by the hair-trigger reaction he was getting, Arthur had probably been bored without him, too. It was gratifying. It always was.

Arthur moaned, arching up, then quickly tried to quiet himself, eyes darting around and a blush creeping across his cheeks as he glanced at the door.

Oh, yes. This was going to be a fun trip.

 

** ** ** **

Chapter Two: Sixes, Sevens and Nines

 

Arthur liked it, the steady thrum of rails under the floor, the background noise of the engine, the occasional whistle. The room had a CD/DVD player and there was a place to rent movies, and maybe later they would rent some Russian film (or Arthur would download one and then burn it,) but for the most part, he was happy with the drone of the train. He liked white noise. It soothed him.

It took him about thirty seconds to style his hair back away from his face. He'd done it like that for years, because it was just easier to work, to see on all sides. He could admit to himself that for the first few years, he'd done so because it was how Cobb wore his hair when he was working.

Behind him, Arthur could see Eames in the mirror, fastening his own cufflinks. He looked good in dark blue. ("PROPER DRESS" the sign on the door to one of the many restaurant cars had read.) Eames was clearly dressing to blend in tonight, which meant that he had something in mind that went beyond having dinner in the awesome looking dining car, and then going for a few card games. He smiled. Not even their first night, and Eames had already started. Arthur watched his hands as he pulled the cuffs of his shirt. They were large hands, but his fingers were quick, even quicker than Arthur's. He even typed fast.

"I looked at the menu," Eames said. "Needless to say, I'm very excited. The desserts looked amazing. There was one... What?" He looked up into the mirror and saw Arthur staring. He peered closer at his own reflection, trying to see if something was amiss.

"Nothing," Arthur said. "I just think you look good."

Eames smiled at him. "Thank you."

"I looked up the menu online last week," Arthur said. "Looks pretty good. What time is it?"

"Five thirty. Our reservation is six."

"Let's have a look around first," Arthur said.

He took a last glance in the mirror then let Eames edge past him (okay, this room was cool, but it was fucking tiny and were they really both going to fit in here for the duration of the trip?) Arthur followed, and Eames made to slide the door closed behind him, but Arthur stopped it with his hand. 

Before the door slid shut, he reached back into the inside of the cabin and pressed a button on the tiny, silent alarm he'd rigged across the door. It was a beam of light across the floor. If broken by someone going into their room, then his cell phone would ring. When he picked it up, it would link to a camera he had installed in the ceiling. He was prepared for attendants to come in and clean, make up the beds and that sort of thing. But you couldn't be too careful.

Eames looked over his shoulder. "The cell phone trick?"

"It's one of my best."

"A work of art," Eames said. 

Arthur closed and locked the door, and they were on their way.

The noise outside of the compartment was less pleasant, but he could get used to anything. Crowds didn't present him with any problems unless he was already in a really bad mood. It was the first day of the trip and everyone was loud, boisterous, and still annoyed almost to the point of frenzy. They chattered, bickered, shoved and huffed as they tried to find their places, where they belonged in some status circle that Arthur had never understood. Who had the better things, and who showed them off to the greatest advantage – that seemed to be part of the contest. Arthur didn't get it, but Eames did. Well, Eames got most of what people were going on about, most of the time anyway. But he also understood the money/status thing. He didn't take part in it, but his family might have, back when Eames was young, before he'd left that behind.

Now, though, the preening that these men and women were doing only presented them with opportunities. They flashed their goods like whores. And neither Eames nor Arthur liked paying for things when they didn't have to.

The cars of the train were plush, almost to the point of ridiculousness. The walkways were tight though. When people shoved at them, usually Eames would do a bit of "oh, beg pardon," as he slipped his hands into pockets, purses, jackets, even holsters. 

But tonight, he just looked annoyed when people got in his space. Arthur understood this, too. This was Eames wanting to be in a bubble. He could be very fussy like that, almost withdrawn. It had taken Arthur years to be allowed inside that space when Eames was like this. Eames would probably have a headache later, one which he would bitch about and generously share with Arthur if he didn't defuse this now.

He placed his hand on the arch of Eames's low back – not solicitous, just present. When Eames looked over his shoulder at him, Arthur just smiled. _I get it. Chill._

Eames took a deep breath and released it, letting some of the tension drain from his back.

They turned to move forward again, but their path was blocked by a tall, blond man. He was of some indeterminable age between the 30s and 40s, with eyes so light blue that Arthur had to stare for a moment. They were large, too, and luminous. His clothes were similar to Arthur's, he was annoyed to note: tailored and classic. _He doesn't have a hat, though,_ Arthur thought, ridiculously. His dislike was immediate.

It may have been because of the way this guy was eyeing Eames so blatantly, but probably not. People gawked at Eames all the time and it never bothered him. But this guy had actually blocked their path and was now just staring, those big, shining eyes surprised and clearly interested.

"Oh, my," the man said.

 _Really?_ Arthur thought. Because, how rude was that? Just going up to someone and deciding it was all right to let them know you wanted into their pants, without even finding out first if... Of course, that was more or less what Arthur had done, years ago when he'd first met Eames, too.

And he was being stupid, because it wasn't as if there was any possibility that Eames would be - he wasn't going to use the word "unfaithful" because there had never been any vow of "faith" between them. On the battlefield, yes, but not sexually, and there never would be. 

Still, Arthur found himself pushing in front of Eames to take the lead, effectively blocking this guy's view by putting himself between them.

"Excuse me," Arthur said.

"Of course," the man answered. His voice was low, almost a whisper. Then he eyed Arthur, a clearly appraising look. He very obviously decided, _Not bad_ , then dismissed him with a glance past him, again at Eames.

Arthur felt like if he had hackles, they would be up. It wasn't jealousy or possessiveness or anything like that, either. This creep, his blue eyes gave Arthur the heebie-jeebies, there was no other explanation. And if he kept gawking like that, he was going to get a punch on the beezer. Arthur didn't like people staring at either of them for too long. It set his teeth on edge and made him feel like they were being made.

"Let's go, darling," Eames said, now putting his hand on Arthur's back. "Excuse us, please," he said to the staring guy.

Finally, the man stepped aside. With a sweeping gesture, he allowed them to pass.

 _Allowed_ them. 

Arthur fought the urge to go back there and and show Staring Guy just how he felt about being _allowed_ to pass. No one gave Arthur permission to do anything, not when he wasn't working for them, anyway.

When they got to the restaurant car, they were taken in about fifteen minutes early and ushered to two red, plush seats opposite each other – a booth with a small table between them. They huddled into the seats.

"What the fuck was that guy's problem?" Arthur asked. He grabbed at a piece of bread and buttered it.

Eames tried valiantly not to grin, but failed. Arthur was going to punch him later, maybe. Then he reached into his pocket and drew out a bill. "All he had was a ten. American money, no less. Hardly worth allowing him to eye-fuck me."

"Seriously?" Arthur asked. Because Eames hadn't allowed that – the guy had just done it.

"He was just looking," Eames said.

"Well it felt like a grift."

"You're paranoid."

" It's my job to be paranoid."

"Is it so far fetched that someone would want to look me over? Of course I'm not the handsome conman I was back in the day, but I'm only young, still, and I like to think that..."

"You're ridiculously attractive, that's not even up for debate. And yeah, he was checking you out. That happens all the time. But I got a feeling off him that I didn't like."

"Why are you so mean to your food?" Eames asked. "I've never seen anyone butter bread with such aggression. Control your testosterone."

Arthur narrowed his eyes and dipped the buttered bread into olive oil before taking a bite. It was fresh and warm. "This is delicious," he said. It came out sounding like an insult, which he didn't mean.

"Arthur," Eames said. He was still smiling. "Are you j--"

"Don't." He pointed his bread at Eames. "Don't even fucking say the word. You know I'm not. I just know a creep when I see one."

"I'll steal something else from him and give it to you," Eames said.

"Don't bother. I feel like it would be more trouble that it's worth."

Eames let the subject drop, which Arthur took to mean that he would go out of his way to prove him wrong anyway. When it came time to order, Eames asked for Rassolnik, in perfect Russian. Eames knew a little bit of most languages, often enough to get by. Arthur knew more useful words and phrases than Eames did, but he never got the accents right. He ordered the potato and mushroom dish in Russian anyway. 

"I do speak English, you know," the waiter said, with a British accent.

"We're practicing," Eames told him.

When the food arrived, Arthur raised his glass and said, "Na zdarOv’y" – "enjoy" – and Eames didn't correct his accent. The food was so good that Arthur almost – almost, but not quite – forgot about Staring Guy. He ate everything, quickly, the way he usually did, while Eames ate slowly, talking endlessly about Russia, trains, the last time he was here and what happened, history, Catherine the Great, cuisine, and whatever else occurred to him. Arthur listened, asking questions now and then, and feeling satisfied and strangely enlightened. 

"Good god," Eames said later, as they were finishing dessert, "this was such a good idea. I might never go back to eating regular food again. Perhaps I'll live here."

"It's too cold," Arthur said. 

"You've survived worse."

"Not by choice. But I agree, this was a great idea."

Post-dinner, the crowd seemed to have settled down. Sometimes, Arthur mused, all it took was the basic assurance of food and comfort to turn people human again. He felt relaxed and decided to let his guard drop, just a little. Nothing terrible was going to happen on this train. To constantly live in that kind of suspense was not only wasteful, it was unhealthy. It had taken him years to learn how to turn that off, but these days, he could if he concentrated enough. "Shell-shock," they used to call it in the early days. Well, he had finally gotten over his, and he knew how to not be like that.

This trip was going to be interesting. Not dangerous, just interesting. He was sure of it.

** ** ** **

There was a lounge, of course, and Eames seemed to find it by sense rather than by looking at directions. It was as if he could hear the shuffling of cards and the exchange of tokens. 

In the lounge, again there were red seats, and half-circle tables as well as one-on-one, private tables. Arthur didn't have a deck of cards, but he would bet that Eames did. The first time they'd ridden the train together, Eames had entertained (and occasionally annoyed) him with card games. He thought of it fondly. Tonight, they'd sit on the train and play cards again, like they had the first time. Maybe it would be fun if they played for truthful answers, the way they had back then. But on the other hand, by now he probably didn't have any secrets, and neither did Eames. He wondered if he could think of anything he'd really like to know, that he didn't already.

He never got the chance to, though, and he wasn't entirely surprised to see the blue-eyed man staring once again at Eames from a table on the other side of the car. Staring Guy was surrounded by others, all playing a card game. He beckoned Eames over to him. Arthur felt all of his alerts instantly re-engage.

Eames smiled and declined with a polite wave of his hand.

But then Staring Guy rose from his table and and seemed to glide over to them. Eames stood in front of Arthur, as if to prevent him from doing something ridiculous, which was insulting. 

"Hello there," the man said. His accent was British, similar to Eames's real one. He looked only at Eames when he spoke. "Terribly sorry for having been in your path earlier. Very clumsy, I'm afraid."

Arthur didn't buy this for a minute. The man offered his hand to Eames. "Jack St. John Dinclusin," he said. He pronounced 'St. John' as 'Sinjin.' "'Jack' will do."

"No problem, mate," Eames said, shaking his hand. "Thomas Eames. Cambridge I think?"

"Very good," Jack said. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Eames."

Eames didn't tell him to call him Tommy, which made Arthur smile. "This is Arthur," he said, standing aside.

"Hey," Arthur said, and he shook Jack's hand, which was was colder than his own.

"A pleasure, Arthur," he said. "California, I believe?"

Arthur drew his hand back. "You got that from one word?" 

"I'm a bit of a linguist," Jack said. "And an America-phile, to be honest. I love the west coast."

"I see," Arthur said.

"Well, listen," Jack said, now focusing again on Eames, "we've got one spot left at our table that needs filling. Either of you interested?"

"We're a bit tired," Eames said.

"Please, we insist on one game. We'll buy you a round."

Arthur knew that Eames was going to say yes. He was still going to try to glaum something off this guy, and maybe even his gang at the table. He'd said he would, and against Arthur's warnings to let it go, he probably felt like he had to. Arthur looked them over, the group at the half-circle table. Three men and one woman, all in their thirties or maybe forties. They were all dressed sharp, like he was. The woman was blond, with neatly gelled, short hair and cool, blue eyes. They were all attractive. Eames actually looked as if he belonged with them.

"Go on," Arthur said, before Eames had the chance to make it awkward by asking him if it was all right. "I'm gonna get a drink, okay?" He wasn't, or at least not one with alcohol. He tried to put a warning into his eyes: _Don't fuck with these people, I sense trouble._ But Eames already knew what he thought.

"It'll be a quick game, Arthur," Eames said. And with that, he headed over to the table. They were boisterous when they all introduced themselves, as if it were some sort of reunion. Well, they were all from around the same area, and had that much in common, so it wasn't surprising.

He took a seat not at the bar, but next to it, where he could take covert glances over at the table.

His view was soon blocked, however, by a bored looking teenage girl, who seated herself in his line of vision and started listlessly shuffling a deck of cards. She looked to be about fifteen, with lank, brown hair and an obviously indecorous Pokemon keychain attached to her belt. She looked as out of place as Arthur suddenly felt. And Arthur never felt out of place, not anywhere, and not in any situation. He scanned the room for her parents and found them quickly because the father kept glancing over at her. He looked both watchful and disapproving, the way most fathers did at their recalcitrant teenage daughters. They were at a different table. The mother seemed to be discussing her, judging by her whispers to her cohorts, and glances at the girl.

"I like your hat," the girl said to him.

"Huh?" Arthur was surprised to see her now sitting across from him at the small table.

"Your hat. It's cool. You look like James Cagney."

"No I don't. He was blond. But thanks."

She shrugged. 

"You look bored," Arthur said.

She rolled her eyes. "As you can probably guess, this trip was not my idea."

"It's really interesting, if you give it a chance," he said. 

"Whatever," she answered. "I saw your boyfriend ditch you. Ouch."

Arthur laughed – there was no other reaction he could think of. "He's not my boyfriend, Christ. I'm thirty-three. We work together."

"Uh huh, that's why you were all handsy with him earlier."

Arthur dismissed this without a response. "They're just being British together, over there." 

"I know. My Mom's British. She's a bitch, though."

"You shouldn't say that about your Mom," Arthur said. He re-thought. When had he started sounding like this? "Scratch that. My Mom was a bitch, too. Well, when she cared enough to make the effort."

"Wah-hah," the girl said, mocking. "Anyways, I'm Michelle." 

"Arthur."

"Yeah, I got that."

"Nothing gets past you," Arthur said.

"Nope."

He watched her shuffle the cards. Took a glance over at Eames, who was doing his "lose on purpose while I siphon your money" thing. Something tightened in Arthur's chest. It wasn't going to work. 

"You play cards?" Arthur asked Michelle.

"No. I just like to shuffle them."

"You must at least know how to play War."

"Mankind is born knowing how to play war." She looked him in the eye, going for a hard, weary look that she failed at miserably, and he hoped she would continue to fail at. She reminded him of Ariadne.

"That's very profound," he said, lightly mocking her in return. "Come on, let's play. I need to keep looking over your shoulder at that table."

"You think he's gonna cheat on you with that hot guy?" she said.

"No," Arthur said. "That's the least of my worries."

"Something else weird is going on, then," she said. "This whole thing gives me a weird vibe."

He had to agree with her on that.

** ** ** **

Eames glanced at Arthur for what felt like the thousandth time that night. His little, adolescent card-playing partner had long since run off to play with her own portable video game system. Eames had watched Arthur play War with her a few times, and then attempt to teach her Bridge and Rummy. He also saw that Arthur was watching his table carefully. Not watching him, but watching the others, and making mental notes for future reference. His alerts were on high. Eames could almost see lights blinking in the computer of his head. It was not the first time that he had likened Arthur to a robot of some sort.

But Eames had this; he had these people figured out. Jack Dinclusin, Kenzie and Giles Fenderlyn, and the woman, Ann Dromalius. They were Society, as his parents had been, and as his siblings still were, for all he knew. He was familiar with this sort of person.

Jack sat next to him the entire time. Eames could feel his eyes on him once in a while. It didn't make him uncomfortable, being watched, because he could shift to being what he wanted the other person to see, with ease. Right now, he was the affable English guy, everyone's mate, harmless, charming, funny, good at the game but not _too_ good.

It wasn't a quick game, as Eames had said it would be. But then, none of these games ever were. It was midnight by the time they wrapped up, and noisy as hell when they were saying good night. Over the din, and over the heads of the others, he saw Arthur stand up, frowning as he did when something had surprised him. Then he saw Arthur grab for his phone as if he were going for a gun. Eames's hand moved reflexively to where he was not carrying a gun, either, before he could stop it. He tucked it back down at his side.

Arthur didn't answer the phone, he just looked at it.

"Well then," Jack said, "quite a good game, Mr. Eames."

"Yes, yes," Eames said. "Good game." Jack was searching his face, trying to make eye contact. "I'm sorry mate, looks like I've got to run. Arthur's just heard from his Mum; his Dad's been ill."

"Oh, so sorry," Jack said. He stared at Eames as he said it, forcing him to meet his eyes. Jack's look stated clearly that he knew this was a lie. He looked blank, almost. Lids too wide around the irises, and for a moment, predatory.

Eames shuttered himself away behind a wall. "Good night," he said, pointedly, and moved past him.

Arthur was still staring at the screen on his phone when Eames got to him. If anyone had been trying to take something from them, Arthur would not still be standing here. 

"What is it?" Eames asked.

Arthur tilted the phone towards him. 

One of the staff was closing the door behind him as he left the room. The only thing that was out of place was the vase of flowers now sat on the bedside table. He frowned at Arthur, who said nothing as he tucked his phone away.

They quickly made their way back to their compartment. Once inside, they stood side by side, staring at the bouquet of flowers on the table. Pink and white carnations, mostly.

"Maybe all rooms get flowers," Eames said.

Arthur glared at him, then went back to looking at the flowers.

"Well," Eames said, "it's not like it's a bad thing. It's not a bomb or anything."

At that, Arthur moved closer to the vase, cautious and slow. Eames couldn't honestly believe that there would be a bomb hidden inside the flowers, but he had obviously given Arthur the idea. The vase was clear, where would anyone hide a bomb in a glass vase. It would take expertise and technology that neither of them possessed, and if someone wanted them dead, there were easier ways.

Arthur didn't move the vase. Instead, he took something out of his bag of toys; a compact, hand-held trace detector. He scanned it over the tops of the flowers. Nothing showed up. He tucked it away again.

"If someone sent you flowers," Arthur said, "then they know what room we're in."

"How do you know they're for me?" Eames said. "Maybe they're for you, darling. Or both of us."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Well. At any rate, it looks like the most dangerous thing on here is pollen. Probably pretty safe. Weird, though. Did that Jack guy send it, maybe?"

"I don't see how he could have. He was sat at the table the whole night, he never had the chance."

Arthur nodded. He looked strangely tired, more so than usual. Eames reasoned that Arthur had had a longer fight than he'd had, earlier. Of course he was exhausted.

"Why don't you see if the shower is free, so you can get to bed?" Eames said. "We share it with the next room, but there's only one person staying in there. I'll go later, yeah?"

Arthur nodded, and started going through his suitcase, looking for pajamas. There was a weary set to his shoulders.

"Oh, I nearly forgot," Eames said. He pulled Arthur backwards by his beltloops and set him down on the lower bed, next to him. "I nicked this for you." He dug into his pocket.

"Not off those people, I hope," Arthur said.

"No. You asked me not to, Arthur. I took your advice, as I often do." Arthur smiled. "No, I got this off one of the conductors."

"Jesus, Eames." Arthur sounded exasperated, but he was still smiling.

Eames pulled out a gold pocketwatch with a train etched into the front. "It's not a sentimental thing, they all carry them. And it probably doesn't have much value and perhaps you can buy them at a gift shop. But I thought it suited you."

Arthur took it and clicked it open. The numbers were big and fancy, and he ran his finger across the glass face of it. "It's really cool," he said. "Thanks, Eames."

"My pleasure." Which he meant, because he always got a kick out of stealing, and he always got a kick out of giving Arthur interesting things, too. "I get head for this, right?" he said, before it got too serious.

Arthur laughed softly. "Sure. Later, though, okay?"

"Later," Eames agreed. 

** ** ** **

Later, though, Eames simply returned from the semi-communal shower to find Arthur already in the top bunk, lit only by a hand held game system on pause. He was fast asleep. The music kept playing, strangely lush over the sound of the train.

Eames shook him awake. "Your batteries are going to die," he said.

Arthur woke instantly, as he always did. "Hmm? Oh. Batteries are a thing of the past. But thanks." He shut down the system and tucked it into a small carrying case.

Eames was so fond of him sometimes.

"Oh, wait. Before you fall asleep." Arthur swung his legs over the edge of his bunk and jumped down.

"I was kidding about giving me head. If you're too tired, I mean."

"I got you something, too, while you were in the shower. And by 'got' I mean 'stole.' Umm." He took something from one of the compartments. "It's not as daring as yours, but you're a better thief than I am. It's just little. I got it off the cart." He held out a box of gourmet chocolate truffles. An easier grab, by far, but probably worth more than the pocketwatch that Eames had stolen.

"My goodness," Eames said. 

"You shouldn't have one before bed, though." He yawned. "It'll keep you awake."

"Perhaps," Eames said, but opened one anyway and bit into it. It was delicious, the darkest of dark chocolate that he loved. "Jesus. This might be better than head."

"I'm this close to agreeing with you," Arthur said. He watched Eames eat it as if he couldn't look away. When he licked his own lips, it seemed an unconscious gesture. Then he pulled himself into the top bunk without using the ladder. He fussed around with the blankets for a few seconds before leaning back over and peering to the bottom bed. "Good night, Mr. Eames," he said.

Eames reached up and awkwardly cupped his chin. _There's no one like you,_ he wanted to say, and _there isn't even a close second_ , but he refrained. There was no need for that sort of thing. Instead he just said, "Good night," and released him.

Arthur smiled, or rather smirked, slightly wry. Then he went back into the top bed and settled in.

A few minutes later, Eames turned off the light.

** ** ** **

The scent of carnations followed him into the dark. His mum had loved those. He hadn't smelled them before, though; when he'd shut the light earlier, the flowers had just smelled chilled and slightly planty-y. 

Eames turned on the small light above his bed. Arthur didn't stir. He was glad; he didn't want to wake him. 

The carnations that had been white and pink were now speckled red. They hadn't been before; Eames noticed things like this. He had to, because he observed for a living and often to save his life. He would have seen red-spotted flowers instead of white or pink ones.

He reached over to the bedside table and touched one of them. The red flecks were warm, and smeared down the petals when he prodded them. He drew his finger back and decided to wake Arthur.

Before he could, he saw the man staring into the window beside his bed. It was dark, the background was moving, he couldn't make out any features other than the mouth. The mouth was white with teeth, and stretched wide. Too wide to be normal or even possible.

Eames flung himself out of the bed and scrambled for his gun, on the small dining table under the DVD player. He grabbed it and pressed his back against the door, staring at the window. 

The face was gone.

"What is it?" Arthur asked, awake and alert. He swung down from the bed and had his Glock in hand before he even got to where Eames was crouching.

"The window," Eames said. He was panting hard, he felt hot, sweaty and trembly. Because, how the fuck did something get outside the window? The train was moving; he could feel it. He could still hear it. 

He reached for the poker chip in the pocket sewn into his pajama bottoms. He felt the weight of it, the familiar wear of the letters.

Reality. 

Still, he looked to Arthur. 

"We're awake," Arthur said, and reached for his own totem. He drew it out of his own pocket and tossed it three times onto the floor. It landed on three each time.

Eames didn't know if he felt relieved or not. There had been no moment of waking, no shift from the dream to reality that he was aware of.

"You dreamed of someone at the window?" Arthur asked.

Eames nodded. He rubbed his face and scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Yeah. First nightmare I've had in years, really. Well, first one that actually worked like one of those nightmares where you think you're awake. What I mean is..."

"Not lucid," Arthur finished for him. "A natural dream, no outside awareness."

"Just so," Eames said. 

"What did they look like? At the window, I mean."

"Didn't see his face, really. Just a person standing there. And blood, too. Not at the window, but on the flowers." He inhaled to see if he could still smell them like he had in the dream. He couldn't. 

He felt utterly stupid. Professional dreamer, having nightmares like a little kid, faces outside the window of a train for fuck's sake. He laughed a little. Arthur smiled and stood up, offering Eames his hand. Eames allowed himself to be pulled up, even though it wasn't necessary. 

"Told you to hold off on the chocolate," Arthur said.

Eames glanced at the clock. He'd only been asleep for thirty minutes. Arthur vaulted himself into his top bed again, and Eames sank back into his. He felt exhausted now, but unsettled. 

Arthur peered down over the edge of his bed again. "You all right, though?"

"In perfect order," Eames assured him. "Just unused to my own level of amateurishness and slightly disappointed in myself."

"You look unsettled," Arthur observed.

"I'm fine. Really. Get some sleep."

Arthur nodded, still slightly dubious. "Well," he said, "you know. I'm right up here if you need anything."

Eames acknowledged him with a nod and made a decent show of settling back into his bed and appearing comfortable. Arthur watched him for a few more seconds before lying down again.

Arthur actually slept the entire night. Eames did not.

** ** ** **

3 – Dust In Your Garden

 

The world raced by outside the window, a cold blur. Eames could just about make out the scenery if he really tried to: bridge, water, trees, snow. It was hard to look at it, though, with Arthur so beautifully in the way. His boyishly smooth skin was a graceful plane as he leaned back against Eames's legs, one hand braced against the cold window, and the stupidly attractive hat the only item of clothing on him. Eames held onto his hips, bruising him. Arthur lost the hat when he gasped, cried out, and tipped his head back. The grey morning colored him pale, muted the flush across his cheeks and shoulders.

When Eames was able to reason again, after a few minutes of trying to catch his breath, he thought maybe Arthur looked a little washed out, maybe a little tired. Of course, waking up at 6 AM to have hat-wearing train sex could do that, too.

Arthur looked down at him. "You're staring at me."

Eames lifted one shoulder and smiled. "Thinking of new ways to fetishize you, I suppose."

Arthur swung his leg over and stood up, fastidious though still covered in a sheen of sweat. "Let me know if you come up with anything else. Because, honestly." He grabbed his hat from where it had fallen on the bed. "This is pretty weird."

"You'll never succeed in shaming me," Eames said, smiling.

"Shame isn't really in my repertoire."

"It shouldn't be. You're beautiful."

Arthur's normal reaction to this was to roll his eyes. When he did this, along with his protestations that he was really nothing special, he actually meant it. He honestly believed that Eames liked him for other reasons. Well, he did, and he would probably love to work with Arthur even if he was hideous in some way. Might even still want to sleep with him, because he was so interesting under his many layers. But in all likelihood, he probably wouldn't sleep with him so regularly, and definitely not in so many interesting ways. He guessed he did fetishize him in some way, but it was with respect and fondness. 

Arthur didn't mind about his looks one way or another most of the time and he often dismissed Eames's comments about them as frivolous. Occasionally he got huffy and insisted that Eames was the good-looking one anyway, as if only one of them got to be.

But this morning on the train, he just stared down at him, considering. 

"Which is not to say," Eames went on, to fill the silence, "that you should be ashamed if you weren't attractive."

"Then when should a person feel shame?"

Eames shrugged again. He was entirely not in the mood for this kind of conversation so early in the morning, so sleepy, and so well-fucked. "Dunno. I suppose when they do something bad, or hurt another person. One who doesn't have it coming," he added, because he had a feeling that Arthur was in A Mood about this all of a sudden.

"Who gets to say when someone has it coming?" Arthur asked as he pulled some clothes out of his suitcase.

 _Christ,_ Eames thought. He was right, it was going to be one of those conversations. "When someone shoots at you, Arthur, they have it coming. Honestly. Do you ever shoot first?"

"Am I Han Solo, is what you're asking?" When he turned around, clothes in hand, he was smiling. He leaned over and kissed Eames, slow and warm. When he pulled away, the smile was gone again.

"What's troubling you?" Eames asked.

"Honestly, nothing. I just don't have any illusions about myself. I'm aware of what I am."

"I'm aware of what you are too, Arthur," Eames said. "At least as much as you've shown me, which I flatter myself is more than you've shown most. And my opinion of you remains stellar. I hope that's worth something."

"I rode you while wearing a fedora at your request on a train in Russia at six AM," Arthur pointed out. "It's kind of not something I do on most days. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to have a quick shower before we have to get up and go, you know. Out there, where it's fucking cold."

Eames sat up and reached for the bottle of water next to his bed. "Arthur, I hope you brought your heaviest coat, because..."

"Why is your hand shaking?" Arthur asked. He now had his Concerned Face on as he nodded to where Eames was reaching for the bottle.

Eames followed his eyes. His hand was indeed shaking, hovering over the water bottle. He hadn't felt anything odd about it. "Must have leaned on a nerve, I guess."

But Arthur came in close and checked his eyes. They both knew that certain compounds of Somnacin, or its derivatives, could cause tremors that sometimes led to worse conditions. "Look right and left," Arthur said.

Eames did as he was told. "No dizziness, no headaches. I haven't gone under in more than a month. Honestly, it's nothing." He held his hand up, and the tremor was gone. Who knew what position he'd gotten his arm into earlier? It wasn't like he'd been keeping track of his elbows while holding onto Arthur's hips or anything.

"Right," Arthur said. "You'll let me know if it happens again."

"Of course." Which he would. They'd learned over the years not to keep things like this from your team. 

But Eames was pretty sure it was nothing, anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

Kazan was cold, painfully cold. Arthur had, in fact, brought his heaviest coat. He could deal with the cold when he was working, concentrating, trying to survive, or seeing a job to the end. He could deal with extremes on a stake out. It was a mindset, where he could shut everything else out and focus.

It wasn't a mindset he kept himself wrapped in when he was not working, and the cold today seeped through his long, wool coat, through the matching scarf, through the gloves, under his skin and into his bones.

"Fuck," he said, trying to bury his nose into his scarf. "It's beautiful here," he added, because he didn't want to complain, and it really was beautiful. 

"Thought you'd like it," Eames said. "I came here about five years ago on a job, and I thought 'What would Arthur think of the architecture?' Knew you'd love to see it up close."

Arthur did want to see it up close, the fortress, the incredible cathedral domes. It's just that his eyeballs felt like they were frozen. He was pretty sure he'd heard stories about people shivering so hard it turned into a seizure. 

A handful of other people in the tour seemed as cold as he felt. The very few young couples huddled together into each other's coats. Arthur eyed Eames's coat. It was his usual winter one, an olive green peacoat that really did a great job accentuating his shoulders and waist, but didn't look anywhere near as warm as than Arthur's own coat, which went to his ankles. How did Eames just not feel the cold?

And why did this have to be a walking tour? Or a tour in the first place? He and Eames, while not the richest men he knew, were well off enough that they could have done a trip of their own. Like maybe from a bus.

He knew he was being ridiculous, because the train had actually been his idea (he was over it, the train drama that Dom had shared with him. He'd loved trains as a child and it was time to get that back.) And because there was no way their schedules would have matched up in the spring or summer. It had to be this.

"Bogoyavlensky church," Eames said, pointing to the blue and gold domes they could see in the distance. "This one went through a lot of changes but it's been around, in various forms, since 1687," Eames said. "Which is older than me, even."

"Incredible," Arthur said. 

"You're freezing, aren't you?" Eames asked. 

"It's gorgeous," Arthur said, "I wish I could construct something like that. Maybe I'll try."

He felt Eames's arm across his shoulders, and for a second, siphoned a little of his heat. But then he remembered how he hated coddling, especially in public.

"Quit pulling away," Eames said. "I will eventually make you put your hands inside my coat."

"I don't do the public thing, Eames. It sets people's teeth on edge and calls too much attention to us."

"Arthur, honestly." Eames turned to him. It started to snow; a few flakes landed on the shoulders of his green coat. "First of all, we're not working. No one is gunning for us here. We staked this out well enough and we're fine. Second of all, I said your hands in my coat, not your legs over my shoulders or something."

"Jesus," Arthur said.

"There's a cafe across from the church," Eames said. "Let's go in, yeah? Before you die tragically. Which would you like? Coffee or chocolate?"

"What's good here?"

"Chocolate. I'd like to grope you right now."

"Please don't."

But Eames did anyway, subtly. Arthur rolled his eyes. He couldn't be pissed off though, not really. It'd had been months since they'd been together for any amount of time, and it was nice—alien, but nice—to be one of the regular people for a while. 

They broke away from the crowd and made their way to the cafe, which was also bustling with tourists, some from their train, some not. Arthur saw the girl Michelle, with her mother and father. The parents were sniping to each other about something, and she was listening to her iPod. Which was a shame, really, because she was probably missing a lot of good info on the world around her. He thought back to when he was a kid. He hadn't carried his walkman everywhere. Well, he couldn't, because even back then he always had his eyes and ears open, hitting on all eights, constantly. Walkmans had been for kids who didn't have to worry about who was behind them.

 _What made me that way?_ he wondered. Because he knew that he'd been vigilant like that even before any major shit went down in his life. Hypervigilant, maybe. His mother hadn't bothered to watch out for him, but plenty of kids had grown up the same way.

He tore his attention away from the small family and looked for Eames, who somehow managed to get himself to the front of the line and still everyone was smiling at him, thinking he was charming. One lady thanked him for picking up her wallet that she had "dropped" and she kindly let him go in front of her. He made two orders in Russian and soon came back to Arthur.

"You're so smooth it worries me," Arthur said, taking the cup from Eames's hand. The warmth made him shiver.

"Everything worries you."

And Arthur really, really thought about that one for a few minutes. He was watchful, sure, even on a non-working trip. (' _Vacation,_ ' his mind supplied, and he had been the one to suggest it, too.) But worried? Did he really worry that much? He didn't feel stressful, just in control.

"I don't really think that I..." 

Arthur looked around, but Eames wasn't standing beside him anymore.

In his place was the blond woman from that group who had asked Eames to play cards. Jack's friend. Or whatever she was.

"Arthur, isn't it?" she said, holding out her hand.

Confused, but never rude, Arthur took it politely. "Yeah, that's right."

"Ann," she said, smiling. "Such a pleasure to meet you, finally."

"Where's..."

"Your friend?" She pointed to the door, where Eames was leaving with Jack, looking over his shoulder at Arthur as if he was trying to extract himself politely from the situation. 

The last thing either of them needed to do was make a scene, call any kind of attention to themselves. More than that, nothing really terrible was going on. People were talking to them. This was no cause for worry, just mild annoyance.

"Excuse me," Arthur said, "I have to..."

Two men flanked him, the others in Jack's group. "Oy, you're Arthur, Tommy's friend!" one of them said. "Giles, pleased to know you." He jubilantly shook Arthur's hand.

The other guy stood in front of him and shook his hand too. "Kenzie's what I'm called, mate," he said. "Jackie says you're from California."

"That's right," Arthur said.

"How's the gold rush over there?"

The two men laughed uproariously and Ann gave a disapproving shake of her head as if these were her unruly children.

"You meet anyone famous?" Giles asked. "Any starlets or Hollywood types?"

"I don't spend a lot of time there," Arthur said. "I'm sorry, I've really got to..."

"Ahh, a traveler then," Kenzie said. "That's the life, innit? Taking to the air, the sea, or the rails, seeing the beautiful world." He clapped Arthur on the back like they were old pals. "That's what life's all about. Hey, how long you known Tommy?"

Arthur fought not to scowl at the use of Eames's first name, even though it wasn't his real one. And now it seemed like they were hustling him out the door, or maybe that was just the crowd trying to push their way around them. They were all kind of blocking the entrance and exit. Anyway, suddenly Arthur wanted fresh air, and he wanted to see which way Eames had gone with Jack. Outside, somewhere.

Once they stepped outside, he braced against the cold and took a look around. Eames was nowhere in sight.

"Shit, forgot my order!" Kenzie said. "Giles, come on then. Lend me a hand."

Kenzie and Giles went back into the cafe, leaving Arthur standing outside with Ann.

She looped her arm through his and looked up at him with very blue, slightly teasing eyes. "What an amazing country," she said. "The architecture and... why look, the wildlife as well." She pointed to the sky.

A great, golden eagle with a wingspan as wide as Arthur's arms swooped to land on one of the domes. It cried in its grating, raptor voice, getting the attention of the tourists. Hundreds of cameras came out of pockets as the chatter rose in amazement.

"Bit of you right there, that eagle," Ann said, looking at him.

"What?"

"Watchful."

He pulled his arm away from hers, because at this point, she was the one being intrusive.

"You're a military man?" she said. "No? A detective, or FBI? CIA? Behavioral analysis? One of those types, anyway."

Arthur did not deign to answer. There was no answer, anyway.

"It'll be looking for its mate," she went on, glancing back up at the eagle, still perched on the dome. "Making a nest, then. I know it seems so cold, but it's almost spring for them. They look after their young so beautifully, did you know that? All animals do. Sometimes a female chick will kill her male sibling in the nest. How cruel, isn't it?"

"Nature isn't cruel," Arthur said. "It just is."

"That is true. In all animals." She nodded in the direction of the cafe door, where Michelle and her parents were exiting.

Michelle's mother was scolding her, pulling the earbuds out of her ears and huffing about how she didn't appreciate anything. Her father looked disapproving, but said nothing. Michelle just looked miserable and put-upon. She also looked embarrassed.

It was difficult for Arthur to forget the adolescent girls that he had known, in the school he'd gone to. They weren't like this one. They hadn't understood embarrassment or shame.

"Parents must always scold their young," Ann said. "That's the way of the world. Young must be taught lessons if they're to survive, and thrive. Sometimes the lessons must be harsh. But there's beauty in punishment, too, isn't there? In suffering for something, and in learning from it."

"No," Arthur said. "I don't think there is anything beautiful about suffering."

She waited until he looked back at her before smiling up at him. "I don't believe you mean that."

The whole thing felt so surreal that Arthur stuck his hand into his pocket and fished around for the die. To really get a feel for it, he'd have to remove his glove. But she was watching his hand now, and he felt conspicuous. 

"Well," she said, her voice light and airy, "it was my pleasure to talk to you. Enjoy the rest of your day, Arthur." She touched his arm again before she turned to leave.

"You too," he said. When she was out of sight, he did take off his glove, and reached into his pocket for the die. He wasn't going to roll it, but sometimes just feeling it was enough to let him know that he wasn't in someone else's dream. When it felt right, he didn't know if he was relieved or not.

"Hey," Michelle said at his side, startling him. "If you're looking for your boyfriend, he's over there." She pointed to the door of the church, where Eames stood with Jack, shifting his weight impatiently.

"He's not my... Whatever. What are you doing away from your folks?"

"I can't take them for long periods of time," she said. "So, what, that woman is trying to get with you? Or was she just making sure you weren't going to cockblock her brother?"

"He's her brother? Then she must be married, she has a different last name." Arthur looked down at her. "Jesus, what are you talking about? How is any of this your business?"

"I'm really bored on this trip," she said. "Watching people do things and listening to them is my only entertainment." 

"Then you should put down the iPod and really listen."

"Shut up," she told him. "It's okay to _not_ be spying all the time. Here, I want you to listen to something."

She held up one earbud of her iPod. Her eyes suddenly looked shy, as if he would tell her to scram, kid, and stop bothering the big people. He actually kind of wanted to. Then he remembered himself as a child, and how dangerous it was when people didn't listen to him. Reluctantly, he took the speaker and had a listen. It was swing music, a guy singing about a man in a pin stripe suit. 

"This song is totally about you," she said.

"I'm not even wearing pinstripes."

"That's not the point. You're still this guy. It's a vibe I get off you."

"You have no business getting vibes off me," Arthur said, sort of joking, but still sort of serious. He didn't have a problem with kids, but he didn't like people in his business. And kids were just another thing he felt like he needed to look after. He didn't like them too close to him, in case anything should suddenly start to go down.

She just stared at him, confused and now slightly wary. "Umm. Okay. I took French up till eleventh grade."

The sudden turn in the conversation confused him and he gave her a look probably similar to the one she was giving him. "Good for you," he said. "It's a great language." Then he felt like maybe he understood where she was going with this. Kids had no attention span. "But Russia's really interesting, too. I have a phrase book if you want to see it."

"Whoa, whoa," she said. "That's way out of my realm of understanding. Why are we doing this? Is this, like, a lesson or something? Je ne comprends pas."

Arthur felt the die in his pocket again. This conversation was way too dreamlike, but it felt like someone else's dream, not his. He had more control over his dreams than this. He couldn't know unless he actually rolled the die, but in his fingers it felt normal.

"A lesson in what?" Arthur asked.

She huffed an exasperated sigh. "Stop speaking French!"

Arthur opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it again. He felt colder than he had before. "I'm not," he said. 

" _Oui_ , you are," she said. "And now you're starting to piss me off."

"I'm sorry," he said, "I'm speaking English." In his head, in his ears, it sounded like English. In his mouth, the consonants and vowels felt different. A soft J, sibilant S, a letters that he hadn't even said. He tried again. "I'm. I'm. I'm." It sounded right, but felt wrong. He put his fingers on his lips and said, "I'm speaking English. English." His lips formed different sounds than the ones he heard. 

He felt sick, dizzy and afraid.

"Oh, shit," Michelle said. "I think you need a doctor. Do you have seizures?"

"No, no, I don't," he said. He looked over at Eames, who suddenly seemed far away. Afraid to speak, he just pointed, breathless.

"Okay," Michelle said. She grabbed his arm and started pulling him. "Okay, it's cool, I got this. I'm not even scared." She sounded like she was. "My Dad's a doctor. Come on."

"No," Arthur said. "Eames. Please." He pointed to where Eames was standing. As if he felt eyes on him, Eames turned to look across the street at him. Jack, who was standing beside him, turned to look, too.

Arthur turned away. He didn't want that guy looking at him. He groped for his cell phone. He would text, that's what he would do. He would text to see if his brain was functioning, if he could still write.

"What are you doing?" Michelle asked. "Do you have meds or something?"

Arthur shook his head, pulling out his cell. His hands shook. He dialed Eames. His recognition of numbers still worked. He looked at the letters and didn't know what to write.

But Eames crossed the street, finally, and took him by the arm. "What's the matter?" he asked.

Arthur opened his mouth to speak but was afraid of what would come out.

Michelle answered for him. "He can't stop speaking French. He thinks it's English, though. I think he's having a seizure or a stroke or something. My Dad's a doctor, he can..."

"Arthur, look at me," Eames said. He checked Arthur's eyes the same way Arthur had done to him earlier. "Go on, say something."

"I'm speaking English," he said. "Is this English?"

"Yes, it's English," Eames said. 

"That was," Michelle said. "But before, I swear to you, I'm not making it up. It was French. I'm not even kidding."

"She's right," Arthur said. "I felt it, it felt like French but it sounded like English. Am I speaking English now?"

"Yes," they both told him.

"Fuck," Arthur said.

"That's English, too," Michelle said. "Seriously. You need to see my Dad. He's a dick sometimes but he's still good."

Eames regarded Arthur carefully, waiting for his decision. He clearly considered it as an option.

"No, no doctors," Arthur said. "Thank you. But no. I'm fine now."

"You, uhh, don't look fine," she said.

"No, you don't," Eames agreed. "Let's go back to the train, shall we?"

"No. I'm all right. I really am. We're good to go on. I don't want to miss this."

"Russia will still be here another time," Eames said.

"I'm good." And he was. He felt good. A little shaken, but more or less normal. It wasn't the first time he'd had some weird little brain glitch, even awake. He'd been dreaming for years and they were still finding random side effects, most of which were benign.

"Umm," Michelle said, "I hate to interrupt, but that blond guy was totally just staring at the two of you. He's gone now though. If it was me he was staring at, I'd think it was a little creepy."

Finally, Eames looked at her, his eyebrows raised as if he was surprised that she had been standing there, talking to them the whole time.

"This is Michelle," Arthur said. "We played cards the other night. Michelle, Mr. Eames."

"Hey," she said. Arthur watched Eames shake her slender hand. She wore rings on each finger, most of them cheap, as if even her jewelry was rebelling against her parents' riches.

As if he'd thought them into existence, her mother came out of the cafe, her eyes darting all over the street, over the heads of the tourists. She was annoyed, really irritated and Michelle was probably going to hear about it. But Arthur sensed, or saw, even from a distance, that she was worried, too. Her fledgling had wandered off. He thought of the eagle again, and thought of Ann telling him that siblings sometimes killed each other in the nest.

Michelle looked over her shoulder, as if she sensed her mother's eyes on her. Then she turned back to Arthur. "Great," she said. "Time for the performance."

"Good god," Michelle's mother said as she strode up to them. "What are you thinking of, wandering off like that? Your father and I were in a fit, thinking you'd been kidnapped or murdered, or sold into the sex trade business."

"Jesus, Mom!" Michelle's cheeks turned pink; she tried to hide it with exasperation.

"I'm so sorry she's bothered you," the mother said to both of them. 

"She didn't," Arthur said. "She just came to... I just felt a little dizzy from the train and she said her Dad was a doctor. She was just trying to help."

The mother eyed him, watchful but not impolite. He got it. _Strange man around my adolescent daughter._

"You played cards with her the other night," the mother said.

"Yes, that's right." Arthur knew he needed to defuse this one. He offered his hand, and a smile which he knew could disarm most people, but could never disarm a parent. Or at least, one who paid any attention. When she shook his hand he said, "And this is my partner, Mr. Eames." He purposely allowed her to make of that whatever would put her mind at rest and he hoped it was, _'I'm with this man here, and I have no interest in your pubescent daughter so lower your hackles._ '

"Nice to meet you both," she said. "I'm Helen and my daughter is a pest."

"Mom!"

"But she's a gentle pest and if you are still feeling ill my husband can have a look at you."

"I'm all right," Arthur said. "Thanks. But I'll keep it in mind."

Helen gave them both a quick nod and then pulled Michelle away from both of them.

Once alone together in the street, Eames said, "Tell me again what just happened," at the same time that Arthur said, "What did that guy want with you?"

"You first," Eames said. "Much more important."

"I told you what happened. I don't have an explanation. We're still discovering side effects to our work, strange things happen all the time. If it keeps up I'll see someone about it. Your turn."

Eames didn't look convinced, but knew Arthur too well to push any further. "He babbled to me about architecture and history," Eames said. "What people say isn't important. How they act _is_. He acts familiar with me, as if we go way back. But I've never met this man in my life. I feel like he wants something."

"He definitely wants something," Arthur murmured. Before Eames could respond to that, Arthur asked, "Did he mention anything about kids, or parents, or any weird thing like punishment and suffering?"

Eames frowned. "No. Nothing like that. Why would he?"

"Because his _sister,_ Ann, sort of accosted me and said a bunch of weird shit like that. About how parents had to punish their children for their own good, and suffering was beautiful."

"And then you started randomly speaking French," Eames said. With that, he pulled the cup of hot chocolate out of Arthur's hand. He opened the lid, looked inside, sniffed it.

"She wouldn't have had the chance," Arthur said.

Eames gave him his most level stare. "There's always someone better."

He went to put the cover back on, but the entire cup slipped from his fingers and splattered on the ground.

** ** ** **

They finished out the tour, though Eames could tell that Arthur had already checked out. His mind was elsewhere. He looked at the buildings that Eames wanted to show him, but he didn't actually see them. He kept glancing at Eames's right hand. He did this until the headache got bad enough that he mostly walked with his eyes down.

By evening, Arthur was almost totally silent. Eames, without the distractions of the city and the people around them, felt the beginnings of an unfamiliar dread. He took a shower with hands that were trembling slightly, the right more than the left. 

When he came back into the room, Arthur was kneeling on the floor beside his bed, tossing the die and watching it land on three.

Eames sat on the bed, and Arthur, still on the floor, leaned back as he pocketed the die. He curled his hand around Eames's calf and cleared his throat.

"So," he said, his voice hoarse, "my concern is that something might be going on that doesn't have to do with... with anything on the outside. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah." Eames's own voice sounded just as unsure. He ran his fingers through Arthur's hair, dug them lightly into his scalp until Arthur grunted in pleasure and let his head drop against Eames's thigh. "That headache?" Eames asked. He dreaded the answer.

"A little better."

"It doesn't necessarily mean anything."

"No. But here's the thing. What if something was going on that we couldn't shoot back at? Something not done to us, and we can't fight it with tricks, C4, bullets, and we can't run from it because it's on the inside. If it was just plain old mundane sickness. We're both in our 30s and we've been putting chemicals into ourselves and messing with our brains since our early 20s. I'm just thinking... Stroke, brain damage, cancer, disease." Arthur never shied away from saying what needed to be said, and Eames loved and hated that about him at the moment. "If someone tried to hurt you, I would... But if it's not a someone? I don't know what we'd do then."

"We would keep calm and carry on," Eames said. "As always."

Arthur sighed, half a laugh, and ran his hand up and down Eames's calf. 

"I mean it, though," Eames said. "What else could we do? We would just face it, yeah? And see what could be done for it." He moved his fingers across Arthur's scalp, and Arthur dropped his head forward. 

"When I've thought about dying," Arthur said, "I always thought of it as someone finally ending me. I'd have a chance to run. Plus, I'd prefer to be kind of old. Like anyone, I guess. But if it was something on the inside, if it was my own body... You know?" 

"We don't have to jump to that conclusion just yet," Eames said. But couldn't fight down the sick feeling that he was in denial. "Let's be logical about it. Yeah, we both started with the dreaming at around the same time. Most people did, but a few started before us. If there was some long-term side effect that was surfacing now, we'd probably have heard of it. Cobb would have contacted you. Also, what are the chances that we would both come down with a neurological symptom on the same exact day? Very, very slim."

Arthur turned his head to look up at him. His eyes were bloodshot and looked hazy, as if his headache wasn't exactly ' _a little better._ ' He said, "That's true," with caution in his voice.

"Over the years, we've hardly had the same dosages of various chemicals and we've definitely not spent an even amount of time under, and we've certainly done different things with our work. So it seems very unlikely that a disease would manifest on the exact same day."

"Right," Arthur said. "Particularly when we're in the same place, sharing a room, eating the same things, drinking the same water... And those flowers. I only checked for explosive trace elements. There's no way to check for anything else that might have been on them. That's really far-fetched, I know. I'm not saying it's true. It could be anything. But honestly, I don't like to skirt the issue. We could still be sick." He turned away and rested his head on Eames's knee again.

"So we have a few options," Eames said, because he and Arthur both liked options above all else. "We could actually go and talk to the young lady's father and get his opinion. Of course, as with any doctor he'll have to cover his ass and he'll tell us to get off the train and get an MRI done right away. That's our second option: we could leave. Third, we take Dinclusin under and see if he's done anything, or knows of anything. Of course, going under without knowing what's going on... that's risky. Drugging him would be risky, but we could manage it. I need you to tell me, Arthur. How bad is it with you? If you need to get off the train and get back to the states, we can go tomorrow and see a doctor immediately."

"No," Arthur said. "I'm not in denial, I'm just trying to use my head. Us getting the symptoms of a neurological disease on the same day isn't logical. Something happened, something _here_ , on the train. And I think we should at least try to find out what it is before we leave, and lose track of these people forever."

"Then that's what we'll do," Eames said.

The train moved through the night. Eames gently stroked his fingers across the back of Arthur's neck, toying with the curls there. He used his left hand, because his right one had begun to spasm every few minutes.

** ** ** **

The frozen lake gleamed under the weak sun as Arthur stood at the edge. Eames was nowhere around. Arthur stood watching couples and families zoom around on snowmobiles across the surface of the ice. These festivities alarmed him under his own surface; anxiety pulled at him and he didn't know why.

From a great distance, the little girl Michelle waved at him. She wasn't aboard a snowmobile; she just stood at the center of the frozen lake, smiling. He could make out the red dot of her Pokemon keychain at her hip. 

"Baikal," said a voice in his ear, "is the deepest lake in the world."

Arthur turned to look, but no one was there. The voice was unisex and accent-less. He still knew it was Dinclusin. Who else spoke when they weren't around? He could feel it, those blue eyes on his back.

The ice cracked. Michelle's face showed a moment of innocent horror, and then the chasm opened beneath her feet and swallowed her. Her hands grabbed at the air, at nothing, and then disappeared.

Arthur ran to the center of the lake and dove in after her. The icy water stung his back. Just his back though; the front of him, where his heart thumped against his ribs, felt warm. He kicked his way to the bottom of the lake. It was strangely peaceful down here, with the sun shining through the waves. Dead silence. His back was cold enough to hurt. He swam deeper.

Something brushed his ankle and he realized that he had lost his shoes and socks. He turned (so slow in the water) to see what had touched him. A crustacean the size of his arm aimed sightless eyes at him, running a long antenna up his leg. Its pink, segmented body flexed and then unfurled, revealing pinching little limbs along its underside. Arthur choked back a cry of disgust and wrenched his leg away.

"Those are corpse-eaters," Dinclusin's sexless voice said in his ear. "They scavenge. Follow them and see."

Looking down into the depths, Arthur saw a mass of them: lake-floor crustaceans that looked like big, flesh-colored fleas. Some of them burrowed into the sand. Others writhed and pulsed over something at the center of them.

They were loathsome, but Arthur swam deeper and kicked them away. They scattered, some of them grabbing his skin with their many legs, a few others refusing to be pushed away from their meal. He struggled to pull them away with his hands as dirt and silt from the bottom of the lake floated into a cloud, obscuring his vision. He got to one crustacean that would not budge at all. He pulled and pulled, bracing his feet against whatever purchase the creature had. He _had_ to remove it.

The silt and sand settled back to the lakebed floor, and the sun shone down on what he was tearing the animal from.

Michelle's tiny, naked body was torn to shreds from the waist down. The animal that Arthur was pulling from her had its mouthparts buried into her scalp. Her body rocked in time with the motion, and tendrils of her skin and hair floated rhythmically. Her Pokemon keychain drifted by in front of his face.

Her eyes opened, showing only whites that he sensed were looking at him anyway. Then her mouth opened and one of the corpse-eaters crawled out from between her gums.

"Where's my mama?" she cried. "Please, my mama! Please! Please! I don't want this anymore. Please!"

He'd seen enough of this; too much, in fact. Arthur opened his eyes. 

It never took him more than a few seconds to orient himself into the waking world. He was on the train, they had left Kazan, it was morning, and he had fallen asleep in the bottom bed with Eames. He mused that it should have felt stranger than it did, because they so seldom shared a bed, and usually only by necessity.

Eames was already awake. Casually, he used the sheet to dry the tears on Arthur's face. This happened often among dreamers that Arthur was quite used to it. It was more a gesture of practicality and understanding than actual tenderness – although his touch was gentle.

"Didn't think I should wake you, as natural dreams are hard to come by," Eames said.

"Thanks," Arthur said. He'd struggled in the past just to be able to dream normally at all. He'd even take nightmares if he could get them.

His back was pressed up against the cold wall of the train and he pulled the blanket around his back and scooted away. Eames moved aside to give him room. 

"Anything important or enlightening?" Eames asked. 

"Michelle, dead at the bottom of the lake," Arthur said. "It was one of those dreams where you finally decide it's gotten bad enough and you wake yourself up. One of those, you know, pathos dreams."

"Right," Eames said. "When you feel pity for one of your projections, amplified times a thousand."

"That's the one." He took a deep breath and straightened his legs so that Eames could stretch out beside him. He thought the dream over again, turned it around fearlessly in his head, put parts of it on repeat.

He'd pulled Eames out of lake once, not too long ago. Maybe it had come from that.

A flare of understanding lit the fire in his brain, and he braced himself on one elbow and leaned over Eames. "Turn your head," he ordered.

Eames did so without asking why. His hair was short these days, and it was easy to see the scar cutting through the brown strands, where a bullet had clipped him on the right side. He'd had a bad concussion after that one, nasty whiplash and maybe even...

"Nerve damage," Arthur murmured, running his finger along the scar. "Eames, how's your hand this morning?"

Eames turned back to him, his eyes bright with revelation. He held his right hand up. It was fine, not even a tremor. "You think it could be residual effects from the concussion? But what about you? Your foreign accent syndrome cranked up to eleven? Ah," Eames went on before Arthur could answer. He lifted his hand to Arthur's temple. 

The last job had gone badly, extremely badly, and they had both ended up as test-rabbits in someone else's insane experiments. Arthur had found himself on the wrong side of electricity a handful of times during that adventure.

"Perhaps we don't need to look for anything metabolic," Eames said. "It would make sense for lingering symptoms to manifest at any time. But as I haven't had the symptom in the last seven months, and you haven't, I presume, been randomly speaking French..."

"Well I don't know," Arthur said. "Maybe I did. I couldn't feel it when I was speaking in French yesterday, so for all I know, I could have done it."

Eames turned to face him fully. He surprised Arthur by putting a hand over his shoulder and pulling him close, then lying back on the bed. It wasn't as uncomfortable as Arthur used to pretend it was. He just didn't know what had brought it on.

"No one would have been around to tell you if you'd lapsed into a different language," Eames said. "And no one would have been around to tell me if my hand had been shaking without my noticing it."

It confirmed something that Arthur had already suspected over the last three or so years: there was no one else for either of them. He didn't question it or read anything further into it. Every few months was fine. Being alone was fine, too. Not particularly wanting to fuck anyone else these days, that was all right with him. The fact that Eames didn't seem to want to either – also fine. Eames's hand on his back, the shudder and rumble of the train swaying beneath them - maybe a step above fine.

The mystery of what the fuck was happening with them, though, for all that he felt sure that it wasn't any of the horrible scenarios he'd considered the night before... not so fine.

"So we go under together," Eames said. "It's as good as an MRI for sickness, which I'm fairly sure is not the case anyway. And better than any medical procedure for finding what might actually be wrong. I look in your head, you look in mine."

"If we find anything," Arthur said, "we have to get off the train."

"Yes. But if that's the case, we have to find out how it got there, too," Eames said. "And who did it. If it's just some fucked up residue from past meddling, then we forget about Dinclusin and the rest of them."

"I still think it seems likely that something here triggered it," Arthur said. "Same environment, same food, same water, same people around us."

"Makes sense," Eames said.

"Once we're done basically cat-scanning each other, I'm taking Dinclusin under. I'll need your help."

"I've got the compounds," Eames said. "I can get him alone."

Arthur didn't like that part too much. It forced him to admit something that hadn't occurred to him yet: this guy made him legitimately nervous. "That's not even necessary."

"What's your plan?"

"Today's Yekaterinburg," Arthur said. "We can come back to the train early and stake out his room. We don't have to do the entire walking tour today. We can disappear early. You give me your own tour, 'cause I really want to see it. Also, if people see us leaving the train with the rest of the group and meeting up with them at different points of interest, it'll look less suspicious. But we wrap it up quick, come back and do re-con before dinner, and set up a timed-release sedation in his room before he comes back. He's got to be rooming with one of them. That's no problem though; they both get knocked out. I take Dinclusin under for maybe about ten, fifteen minutes at the most. If need be, you go play cards with his little gang for a while. I show up a few minutes later in the lounge, Dinclusin wakes up about five minutes later, duck soup."

"Duck soup," Eames repeated softly. "But first."

"First we go under together. Three layers down."

"Three?" Eames sounded surprised.

"If something is wrong with either of us, that's where it will be most obvious. The brain already knows, but at the top levels, I find it's more willing to lie to protect itself." Arthur stood up. Instead of reaching for the PASIV, he set the light alarm across the door. Then he plugged his phone into a small set of speakers and turned back to Eames. "Three minutes. That'll give us plenty of time in the third level. If someone comes in while we're down there, it trips the alarm on my phone. We hear the ringtone and we shoot ourselves awake."

Eames sat up, now fully awake. "All right. Let's go take a look."

** ** ** **

 

4B – Plant Your Hope With Good Seeds

 

Arthur walked the streets of Eames's subconscious. Eames was nowhere to be found, but that was just as well. His projections would speak for him enough, just as Arthur's projections would give away his mind's secrets, the ones that his conscious mind would cover up. Somewhere in his mind, Eames was walking his streets, or going through his rooms.

It was a shared dream; they were both the dreamers. 

The construct of Eames's subconscious this time was a pretty, tree-lined path populated by easy-going projections. It looked almost like a jogging path, or maybe hiking. Sun dappled the green grass, and a breeze scented the atmosphere. Arthur tilted his head. The scent was his own aftershave. The fact that Eames was close enough to smell him, and that's what he dreamed of in his deepest layers made him feel warm, almost hot, down here where everything was amplified. 

The sky was a vivid blue, too vivid to be real life. This did not seem like a mind that was growing a cancer, but Arthur had to be sure. There was no sense even taking this chance if they weren't going to be thorough.

He stopped one of the projections on the street, a young man in khakis and a fitted tee shirt. Arthur said, "What nice weather today."

"It is," the projection answered in a London accent. "It truly is. Strange, though."

"What's that?" Arthur asked.

The projection looked at the sky. "Well, I swear it was just winter. And then a few days ago, this. High summer, all at once."

"How long did the winter last?" Arthur asked.

"Months, I think." He rested his hand on a trail mile-marker. Seven, it said.

"That's really nice," Arthur said. He couldn't add anything more, for fear of disturbing the structure of the dream or influencing it. He was already influencing it enough with his own emotional reaction, and he didn't want to add anything further. "I'm looking for a secret place," he said. "Any secret place where it's not summer. Can you show me to anywhere that's cold or dark?"

"Why would I want to do that?" the projection asked.

"So that I can open the windows," Arthur told it. "And let the light in."

"Oh. Well in that case." The projection pointed to a tall, grey building that rose against the blue sky. It hadn't been there before. It was marked with a big, dark blue "H" on the front of it. "There's where you want to look for anything important, anything hidden."

Eames's subconscious was simply telling him where to go to look for his secrets. The hospital was the fear of mortality they had discussed the night before. Likely, it was also any and all of Eames's past experiences with mortality; his own and that of others around him.

"You've got the key in your pocket," the projection told him. And then it jogged away.

Arthur went into the medical building. The air here was chilled, like an air-conditioner was running; something necessary to cool the constant heat that Eames gave off. Orderlies and doctors bustled around. None of them looked exactly urgent, but a few did look worried, or maybe anxious.

Arthur fought down his own anxiety. He must not influence this.

He went up to one of the doctors. This was a generic doctor-archetype in a white lab coat. He wore glasses and had white hair. 

"I'm here for the results," Arthur said. It was an open conversation starter. 

"Then I'll have to take you to the top floor," the doctor told him.

Without any other shifts in time, they stood inside a glass elevator, that was rising, rising to the top. When the doors opened with an official-sounding "ping", the doctor led the way through a large, sterile, tiled hall.

"I assume you're concerned about victims of the recent quakes," the doctor said. "That's why I brought you to the top."

"Victims?" Arthur asked. 

"Months ago there was an explosion that rocked the entire country."

"I remember it."

"People got burned in that explosion. And there have been aftershocks."

"Aftershocks," Arthur said. "So, that means the aftershocks... those are from the explosion? There's nothing else?"

"I've looked everywhere," the doctor said. "I haven't found anything. But would you care to see the results?"

"I would."

The doctor took him into a vast medical room. It was dark save for the backlit x rays lining the walls, and a full body scan x ray on a table in the center, lit from underneath.

"Can you see all the different fault-lines on this map?" the doctor asked.

"I see them," Arthur said. He didn't see a map, he saw an outline of Eames's body. But this was the time to just go with it. He knew what most of those "fault lines" were from, too. Not all, but most.

"I don't see anything growing up from any of those cracks," the doctor said. "There were some burn victims from the explosion. That's about it."

Arthur looked the scan over completely, checking for dark spots, anything that would show up in waking life as pain, as some nagging unrest. As something Eames would know without knowing. He ran his hands over the image, feeling for heat or cold or pain. He saw nothing, felt nothing, and breathed a sigh of relief. 

He then pointed to the right hand on the x ray. "What about this, here?"

"That," the doctor said. "Yes, that. It's not something from within the world. What you see happening there is coming from somewhere outside. We're trying to pinpoint what it is. We can't know from in here because it's not _from_ here."

"I understand that," Arthur said, even though he didn't, not quite. There had been some meddling inside Eames's head on their last job, but surely Eames would know this as the cause. "No guesses, though?"

"Something from the outside," the doctor repeated. "Some kind of terrorism. Some kind of punishment."

** ** ** **

Eames opened his eyes to Arthur's deepest layer – or at least as deep as they were willing to go. Arthur was somewhere probably messing about with his projections, wheedling secrets out of them. Not that Eames had many left to share with him. A few, perhaps, maybe ones he'd just never thought to tell.

In Arthur's subconscious, an expanse of blue, warm, glittering water surrounded Eames, a sea of light. He looked down to see that its depths were endless. There was no sea-floor – this still water went on forever, to the other side of the world. For a second, Eames almost panicked. A man could drown here, sucked under, breathless, never to surface. What was he doing so far out here?

But the water supported him and seemed to carry him along. He felt naked. He _was_ naked.

While there was no bottom to this sea, there was a shore. White sand, gleaming like glass, lined the water. Eames swam toward it. Out here in the center of Arthur's depths, there was no one to talk to. Interesting and intimidating as it was, he needed actual information on his body, not his mind or his emotions.

He reached the shore in a few short strokes, and pulled himself onto the warm sand. Sun-bathers and beach-goers all populated this space. They weren't being loud or obnoxious, or making a lot of noise. However, they were all just as nude as he was. Eames reflected briefly on what it meant, that Arthur let him into his waters so far out, and that all of his projections were naked. It gave him a shiver, the feeling of something primal, something he wanted to hold onto and protect. He knew that this intensity would fade once they both woke up. And he was here for a reason.

He went up to one of the projections, a blond woman playing volleyball with no net and no partner. 

"Hey handsome," she said. "What is it you're looking for?"

"Something frightening," he said. "Something that doesn't live in the bottom of that warm sea, but elsewhere. Something, anything, that's not supposed to be in this world. Can you show me anything that's not supposed to be here?"

"Not anymore," she said. 

"Anymore? Was there something recently?"

"Hmm." She toyed with the volley-ball between tanned hands. Eames wondered at the fact that Arthur's subconscious sentinel was a ditzy, naked beach-bunny.

"It was strange, a while back," she said. "Someone came in speaking French."

Eames's mouth went dry. He had to stop and re-set. The entire beach shuddered and he knew it wasn't movement from the train three levels up. "Define 'came in,'" he said.

"Came in," she said. "To here. _Down_ here."

"A man?" Eames asked. "A woman?"

She said, "Yes. A man. A woman. Neither. It's strange, because some of us speak French anyway. But this person just showed up all the way down here. From the outside. You know?"

"When was this?" he asked. "Was it perhaps a while back? During the time of lightning storms, maybe?

"Nope," she said. "It was, like, more recent than that."

"Well," Eames said. "Well, fuck."

** ** ** **

They met in the middle ground of the third layer, between the tree-lined park and the sea. Arthur got there first and was waiting on a stone bench when he saw Eames making his way towards him. For all the warm, scented dreamscape, he suddenly felt like he was in a doctor's waiting room.

Eames didn't keep him waiting too long. Before he even sat down beside him he said, "You're not sick."

"Neither are you," Arthur said, feeling so glad to tell him that, and to see the relief on Eames's face.

Then Eames sat beside him and dropped a bomb that Arthur hadn't expected. "Your subconscious says a french-speaking person broke in."

 _Impossible_ Arthur thought. But since they were dreaming, Eames heard him anyway.

"I'd have thought so, too. But you told me yourself."

"Well, it's not just me who got invaded by whoever. Your subconscious seems to think that some of your symptoms are after-effects of head trauma. But it also suggested that someone from the outside did something to hurt you. 'Punishment,' it said."

Eames turned to face him. "What does that mean?"

Arthur had no answer for that. He stared into a gleaming sunset. "Well, look." He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. "It's not an ideal situation. Obviously someone got to us, right? But this is something that we can chase, shoot and fight. That's what we wanted it to be."

Eames remained silent.

"We wanted something that wasn't a sickness. That's what this seems to be. Someone did something to both of us, on purpose. We can find out what it is now. Then we can undo it."

"This was supposed to be a vacation," Eames said.

Arthur put his hand on Eames's knee. "It can still be. We can see all the things we wanted to see."

"Still. Do wish people'd stop fucking with us."

Arthur hated the forlorn look on his face. "But that's the kind of life we're in," Arthur said. "I'm going to just be glad that it's nothing worse than that. Yes, I know, it still could be. Just because we're not dying doesn't mean we won't end up dead. But..." He looked around at the dreamscape. What a beautiful space his and Eames's collective subconscious had created, and which Eames had scented with Arthur's aftershave, of all things. "But we're alive now," Arthur went on. "And we have a mission. I can deal with missions. Missions are doable." 

Eames fell silent again, and for a while, so did Arthur. There was still some time on the countdown; years of dreaming had given him a sense for it.

"While we're down here," Arthur said, "I want to give you something. It's important."

Eames turned to face him, looking a little worn, a little tired. It steeled Arthur's resolve for what he was about to do. He picked up the blue bottle that was sitting next to him on the stone bench. When he held it up to the dying sunlight, blue, grey and white light swirled fluidly within it, glittering. It looked like something out of a fantasy. To Arthur, it was.

"What's that?" Eames asked.

"It's Cure-all." He put it into Eames's hand. "Your body ultimately does everything your brain tells it to. You can tell it to get sick. But more importantly, there are documented cases of people willing themselves better from incurable diseases." 

"Some people have very powerful minds," Eames said. He looked wary.

"Some people have powerful _ideas_ ," Arthur corrected. He pushed the bottle into Eames's hands and held them together tight. "We're three levels down, so pay attention. If a day comes when you do get sick... if it's some kind of terminal disease? You'll know when it starts. You'll know, and you'll get to the doctor right away and have every test under the sun. Then, you'll have this bottle of Cure-all with you. Your subconscious will drink it every day. You'll think yourself well. It will give you a chance, and you'll beat it. Whatever it is, whenever it is, you'll beat it. You don't have to know why, you just will."

Eames's eyes were wide, but he didn't look away. "You're incepting me."

"I am," Arthur said. "And I'm going to tell you to forget this part when we wake up, too. It works better if you forget. And I'll ask you to keep trusting me as well. I'm sorry, Eames, I really, really am. But I'm not ashamed."

Eames pulled his hands away from Arthur's, but he didn't let go of the bottle. He sat back against the bench and seemed to think this over. When Eames tucked the bottle into his pocket, Arthur let go of the breath he hadn't known he was holding.

"What if the day comes when I want to die?" Eames asked. "If I'm through, I'm alone, if I'm old and tired and I _need_ to die?"

"Then you have my permission," Arthur said.

"Right," Eames said. "Right. Well. In that case." From beside him, he pulled a gun. When Arthur flinched, thinking he was going to end the dream, Eames held it up harmlessly. Arthur saw that it wasn't any normal sort of gun, more like something out of a sci-fi film, with tubes and shining wires looped around it, in green, blue and white. He put it into Arthur's hand.

"And this is?" Arthur said.

"If the day comes that you get sick, this is the gun you'll use to fight it. You'll also know right away and you'll do everything necessary to take care of yourself. When you find out what it is, every day your subconscious will fire this gun at the sickness until it's gone. Unless you are entirely out of hope and you wish to die. Then you have my permission. Consider yourself incepted as well, you prick."

Arthur took the gun, not bothering to hide his smile. 

"Oh," Eames added. "And you should also forget about this part when we wake. And continue to trust me as if I hadn't just broken a cardinal rule against your psyche."

"Do you think I'm a bad person for doing this?" Arthur asked.

"You know that's not what I think of you," Eames said.

"Are you angry?" 

Eames looked at him for a long moment before threading his fingers through Arthur's hair and kissing him.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Five - There Is A King

 

Arthur looked Eames over carefully in the morning light, outside of the Yekaterinburg station. He was concerned. In some unsettling, unexplainable way, he felt as if he'd done something wrong, but he didn't know what. 

"You look pale," he told Eames, as they walked away from the station. He was freezing already. Moving away from the forced, heated air of the station was torment of the highest order.

"Don't feel pale." Eames smiled at him.

"How can you feel pale?" He put his hand against the side of Eames's face and turned him first one way, then the other. He didn't know what he was looking for. Eames's eyes looked so much lighter in the day than at night; they changed colors subtly depending on the light. Today they were grey with a green cast reflecting off Eames's olive coat, with a darker circle around the edges. Arthur thought, not for the first time, of how normal he must look standing next to Eames, and wondered again what it was that had made Eames say "yes" to him all those years ago. But otherwise, Eames's eyes didn't look any different to him than they usually did. And maybe he really didn't look pale, after all. Maybe he was just tired. 

"Stop putting your icy hands an my face," Eames said. "It's a method of torture. And stop fretting, for christ's sake. I'm fine. You're fine. We're on vacation and we're bloody well going to enjoy it. It's going to be a beautiful day today and nothing is going to ruin that."

Arthur tugged his gloves on and grabbed for Eames's hand as they walked from the white, columned building. Which was weird, he knew, because he never did that; it was dangerous to do in public. He was tipping his mitt and he knew it. You never showed other people what was important to you. And there were many people around, bustling out of the station into the bright, cold morning, ready for their tours. Arthur was sure some of them were looking at the two of them. It was the kind of world they lived in. But even if he'd been with a woman, he would not have grabbed her hand: safety was in playing it close to the vest. In private, he kind of had a thing for Eames's hands. But this was just strange of him. He was aware of that.

Eames seemed to think so, too, looking at him with one eyebrow up, and a smirk at the corners of his mouth.

Arthur looked away and pulled him along a few more steps, onto the snowy street. "I feel like something's wrong," he said. "I don't know what or why. I think I had a dream that I can't remember, where I did something to you in it that wasn't right. Like you should be pissed off about something."

He felt Eames shrug. "I'm not angry. I'm not sick. Everything is in order, right, we've made our plans for the evening." He turned to Arthur. "We'll have a few hours out here today, then we'll head back early like we planned. Stay focused. Jobs go to shit when you're nervous. I need you on top of your game."

Arthur took a deep breath. "You're right. I think going three levels down just shook me up a little. But we found out what we needed to know and we're all right. I'm good."

"Got your shit together?" Eames asked.

"Yes."

"Good. Then put Dinclusin and the rest out of your mind and relax. By and by, I'll tell you all about the horrifying murder of the Romanov family. It's quite sad, filled with anguish."

"That's great?" Arthur said. "I remember a lot of it from school."

"Not the details, I'll bet."

Arthur had looked up the history online, and he actually did know about the murders, the circumstances surrounding them, and the church. But Eames wanted to tell him. And he liked listening to the way Eames told stories, anyway.

The other passengers moved about them, forming a group around a bus. He and Eames pretended to be a part of this group. It wouldn't do to disappear right away. Arthur spotted Michelle and her parents coming out of the station. He looked around for Dinclusin, or Ann, but didn't see either of them. The other two men were lurking, though, Kenzie and Giles Fenderlyn. Arthur had stored their names away in his head. Those two set off his alarms, but he thought they were more like lookout guys for the other two. Dinclusin was at the head of this operation. Wouldn't hurt to keep his specs peeled for these two puppets, since they were all four of them obviously up to no good together. He pulled his hands away from Eames and forced himself into a casual posture.

Kenzie and Giles huddled together, sharing a lighter to ignite two cigarettes. Kenzie was the smaller of the two. He leaned up and whispered something in Giles's ear and Arthur saw his tell when his hand gestured vaguely to the other man's hip. They were both carrying, and obviously didn't want anyone else to know.

Eames was watching them carefully, too. "They're jacks," Eames said. "That's all. Dinclusin's the king in this hand."

"I thought so, too," Arthur said. "So we keep an eye on them, and they won't get lost in the shuffle."

"Right."

From the corner of his eye, he saw an attention-getting motion and turned to see Michelle waving at him. The simple gesture made his chest clench tight. That cheerful wave she'd given in her dream before being swallowed by the lake.

Arthur had gone years without natural dreams, most of his adult life, actually. He'd only begun dreaming again within the last two, and he wasn't quite used to his own mind yet. He wondered if this was how normal people felt about their dreams. 

He waved back. It was a few days until they got to Baikal. There was nothing to worry about, anyway.

"Look," Eames said, pointing to a young-ish couple who stood hand in hand by the bus. She was in a floor-length fur coat, and the man wore a similarly long wool coat in black. "How posh."

"Fuck him, my coat is better than his," Arthur said.

"Fur is so tacky," Eames said in a mincing voice. "Wouldn't be caught dead in it. And look at her flashing those rocks on her hands like a damn fool. Wonder what's in that bag of hers."

"Why do I feel like we're going to find out sometime today," Arthur said.

"It's all about opportunity. We'll see if it comes along. They, by the way, are Anthony and Miranda Nelson. What do you think they're doing here on this tour?"

"I don't know," Arthur said. "I didn't check out everyone on the train. Should I have?"

"Nah, see," Eames said, "you don't even have to check. They're trying to reconcile their marriage, and they likely will, too, because they're what each other needs. Look, she's old money, I smell it on her. He's new money, a surgeon or something. A plastic surgeon, like. To all the aging Hollywood stars."

"Really?" Arthur wasn't sure if this was something Eames had picked up, or if he was just guessing.

"Yeah," Eames said. His voice sounded conspiratorial and amused. "That's right, and the second she turns forty he's going to give her the old tuck and lift. That's surgery, Arthur, get your mind out of the gutter. She'll ask him to keep doing it until her lips meet at the back of her head and then he'll leave her for someone young and dewy."

" _Dewy?_ Jesus, Eames."

"Right, but she'll be fine, because she's got money."

"And lips in the back of her head," Arthur added.

"Imagine, she could give a blowjob from behind, that way."

Arthur laughed, loud and sudden. Eames looked at him fondly, while a few other people turned their heads, surprised or annoyed at his outburst.

"Now every time you see her, you'll know that one day she'll give great head. Right, what about those two?" Eames pointed to an older couple this time, in their sixties. They were both rotund, the man entirely bald, and the woman with thin, blazingly red hair. They were dressed in matching dark pants and striped shirts. 

"Matching outfits are a disease," Arthur said, watching them as they went to the bus. "Umm. They met in high school. She used to be a cheerleader."

"He was the jock?" Eames said. 

"No, he was the math nerd. It was an unlikely love story."

"Maybe you'd like it if I did my hair that color?" Eames asked. "What d'you think? I could pull that off."

"You could pull anything off," Arthur said, truthfully. He wanted to trace the angle of his cheekbones, run a finger down the noble slope of his nose, and leave filthy marks all over his jaw. Christ, he wanted an actual vacation, where he could do these things without worrying about who was watching. Why did Eames have to be standing there like that, in his fitted olive green coat, looking clean-cut and delicious under the bright, cold sun? Talking to him in a voice that went straight to his dick? When all he wanted to do was tackle him? It wasn't fair.

"You flatter me overmuch."

"But I only tell the truth," Arthur said.

Eames turned to him. He looked like he was trying to remember something that bothered him. "You wouldn't lie to me, would you?" he asked, as if he had just discovered this. "No, I don't think you could."

Arthur felt his pulse skip, as if he were guilty of something. He didn't know why. "I don't think I could, no. You'd probably know."

"But would you trick me?" 

He struggled to look into Eames's eyes. He had no idea why this was so hard; he felt utterly fucked with and it was starting go anger him. Of course he wouldn't trick Eames, why should he? 

"Yes," Arthur said, surprising himself. "Yeah, I could see myself trying to trick you. If I thought it would help something. I guess I would, if I thought you were in trouble and there was no other way. I don't think I'd do it to hurt you, though. But I mean, who knows. People can change. Look at what Dom did to Mal, right? And what she did to him. No one would ever have thought that could happen. They loved each other, there was no question of that, and they had a family, kids involved, you'd like to think that everything's fine, you settle down together and that's it for the rest of your life. But they betrayed each other in the end. And why? They both thought they were doing the right thing for each other. Anything can happen, they're the perfect example." He swallowed hard. Eames kept staring at him. "Yes, Eames, I could see myself trying to trick you. I can also see you doing it back to me. It disturbs me, but what can you do about it?"

Eames surprised him by pressing his cold knuckles to the side of his face. "It was just an offhanded question," he said. "I didn't mean to bring up any old pain."

"You were right to ask," Arthur said. "We never really talk much about the way we..."

"Hey," said a voice behind Eames.

Eames jumped, startled, and moved aside to reveal Michelle, so tiny that she'd been able to disappear behind him.

"Are you two Not-Boyfriends going to get on the bus, or are you going to stand here all day?" 

For the briefest of moments, Arthur saw her under the waves, her brown hair floating rhythmically, her white eyes pleading with him. He wanted to be annoyed with her, but couldn't. "We're going our own way, by cab," he told her.

"Why?" she asked.

"Arthur doesn't like buses," Eames said. "They make him feel carsick."

"I get carsick too," she said. "Let me go with you guys."

"Fuck no," Eames said. "Sorry pet. My activities do no allow for extra responsibility. And your parents already think that Arthur is a predator."

"They do not," she said. "I told you, my Mom's a bitch. The only thing she said was that at first she thought Arthur was about my age and that his boyfriend was a pederast. I told her Arthur was thirty three and she laughed and said that up close she could see the wrinkles. She's an idiot."

"Well how old did she think I was?" Eames asked, insulted.

"She didn't say," Michelle said. "But she thinks she saw you in a magazine like ten years ago. She thought you were a model, if that makes you feel any better."

"I was," Eames said, "and it doesn't."

Arthur gaped at him. "You were?"

Eames tsked. "Oh, Arthur. You've had ten years to do your homework and you haven't finished yet." He turned back to Michelle. "Go on now, get on the bus and leave the pederast to his thirty-three year old boy to their business. Face forward and take deep breaths, you'll live. And put that iPod down once in a while."

"You are so mean," she said.

"Listen to the tour guide," he told her. "It's fabulous history here."

"If you like stories about people getting shot repeatedly."

"They are among my favorites," Eames said. "Get along, pigeon."

Amazingly, Michelle was trying not to smile at him. She had to fight in order to keep her sulk in place. "Fine, be like that," she said. "Later, you two. I hope you puke in the cab." She walked away to join her parents, who had gone ahead and were waiting to get on the bus.

"She's charming," Eames said, when she was out of earshot. He turned back to Arthur. "And you're still upset about your dream."

"No," Arthur said. He meant it honestly. Or, if he was, it was a different dream that upset him, one he couldn't remember. 

"Worried Arthur is of no use to me," Eames reminded him. "Get your shit together and relax."

 _But it's you I'm worried about,_ Arthur did not say.

He didn't know why he felt that way. He only knew that Eames didn't want to hear it.

** ** ** **

By the time the cab dropped them off at the church, the sun had slipped behind clouds that now dominated the sky. With the wind came the scent of snow, brittle and fresh. Eames glanced over at Arthur to see him huddling into his coat and holding onto his hat. Not the fedora today, either, but a fitted cap that came down over his ears.

He had felt Arthur's eyes burning on him for the entire ride to the church. It made him feel frantic, more than the usual effect that Arthur had on him. His gaze cut through the vague feeling of being unsettled and off balance that had plagued him all morning. Arthur had said he looked pale. He didn't disbelieve him. It took all he had in him to find his center, to project calm. Arthur was the one who was going into someone's head tonight; he needed to be clear.

The trembling that Eames felt all through his body – he'd deal with that later. Arthur would find out what it was that old Jackie Boy had done to him, if anything at all. Or to them, maybe. Then he'd fix it. Arthur always came through for him, but he needed him to be at his best. He could not be at his best if Eames wasn't at least pretending to be at his. ' _Hitting on all eights_ ', Arthur would say, or something like that.

Once in front of the church, they stood side by side and stared up at it. They had beat the crowd. It was just the two of them, surrounded by the snow-covered park, and dwarfed by the white and gold domes. The sun was gone and the morning had faded under clouds, so the domes didn't gleam like they had the last time Eames had come here.

"They call it Church On Blood," Eames said. "It marks where the   
execution took place."

"Show it to me," Arthur said.

With no one around, he took Arthur's gloved hand and linked their fingers together. Arthur had occasionally gotten grabby-handed with him before, mostly as a precursor to dragging him off for some frantic screwing when they were supposed to be doing something else. This morning when he'd done it, it had felt a little different. It had felt, weirdly, more like a claim. This time when Eames did it to him, all it meant was _'Come with me_ ' as he led Arthur up the stairs.

"It was 1918," Eames said, "July, and the Romanov family was in exile. They were awakened at midnight and told to get dressed, without knowing why. They did. The girls most of all."

Arthur looked at him instead of at the church, as if more keenly interested in how he chose to tell the story than in the history in front of him. Eames knew perfectly well that Arthur knew this story. He didn't go anywhere without knowing first where he was going and why.

They reached the top of the stairs and stood at the foot of the statue of the Romanov family clustered around a cross. Eames looked for a long time at the child in the arms of the Tsar.

"What was that about the girls getting dressed?" Arthur asked. "I've never heard about that."

Eames led him away from the statue to the side of the towering church. A circular alcove jutted out, with arched, brickwork and columned doors leading into them. The first few flakes of snow began to fall. 

"The Tsar died first, shot in the heart. The girls, Anastasia and her sisters, survived the first round of bullets. They were shot again and again, but would not die. Eventually the executioners started just trying to gore them to death with bayonets." Eames swallowed hard. Contrary to what he'd said earlier, he actually did not like this story. It had given him nightmares as a child, long-lasting night-terrors even, of executioners coming for him and his family in his sleep. Tearing them up with bullets and bayonets. All the wealth in the world unable to stop the slaughter.

Arthur tugged at his hand. "Why did they take so long to die? Was it like a Rasputin kind of thing? He took forever to die, too."

"No. Well, yes, he did, but, the girls. There was an old anecdote about them. Their corsets, you see. They supposedly had diamonds in them."

"Jesus." 

"It's likely not true, but it's the story I grew up hearing, the diamond-studded corsets. Their armor never protected them; it only prolonged their agony. To die in anguish like that... Those beautiful girls." He turned to see Arthur staring at him, maybe a little surprised, and perhaps waiting for something.

"You hate this story," Arthur said.

Eames kissed him. He did it harder than he meant to, and Arthur made a shocked little noise in the back of his throat. Eames backed him up through one of the arched doors, into the alcove, and pressed him against the cold stone of the church. Arthur's back hit the wall hard, and forced a rush of breath out of him that Eames caught with his lips. 

"Die old, Arthur," Eames said against his mouth. He grabbed his wrists and pressed them against the wall, pinning him entirely. "Do whatever else you like with your life, you don't even have to stay mine, just die old."

"Eames," Arthur said, "What..."

He kissed Arthur again because he didn't want to answer any questions. He couldn't imagine why he suddenly felt this way, as if he had to make this demand. It burned from the inside. Arthur's cheek was so cold against his lips when he kissed him there, as if he was already gone. He let go of Arthur's hands, slid them instead around the back of his neck and pulled his hat off. He threaded one hand into his hair, combing his fingers through it, tugging on it, mussing it up.

"Okay," Arthur said, with a breathless, nervous little laugh.

"Get old and go grey," Eames said, "and get aches and pains from all of your injuries. If you ever must fight against me, or leave, or betray me, then do so. But die old."

"God, Eames, what the fuck?" 

Arthur gripped him by the arms, not kissing back, just bracing him, and god, he was falling, literally falling. He felt dizzy and had to lean against Arthur, his face pressed into the wool of his collar. He breathed him in and said, "Don't let me fall."

"I've got you," Arthur said, sliding both arms around him. It wasn't an embrace so much as he seemed afraid that Eames would actually fall. "Come on," he urged. His voice sounded soft and worried as he tugged to get him upright again.

"I'm all right," Eames said. He waited for the darkness to clear, and when it did, he planted his hands on the cold wall behind Arthur, bracketing his shoulders, and eased away from him. "I'm fine. Sorry. Came over somewhat dizzy."

"Right," Arthur said. He put his hands on Eames's shoulders and looked him over. "Right, but that was more than just a little dizziness. You kind of acted crazy for a few seconds. Hey. What was that about me betraying you and dying young?" He gave him a light shake.

"I don't know."

"Eames, what was it? What did you mean, 'betray you?'"

"I don't know, Arthur."

"Because earlier you asked me if I would ever trick you, and honestly I feel like I did something to you and I don't know what it was. If you know, tell me. Let's not wait until this gets out of control. Did something happen?"

"No," Eames said. He was sure nothing had. Arthur stared at him, looking almost guilty and not yet relieved. Eames's vision cleared around the edges and went crisp. The last few minutes came back to him and he was surprised at himself. He'd been babbling to Arthur about betrayal, about death, all while mussing up his hair and more or less rutting on him up against a church. "I realize how ridiculous I sound," Eames said, "but I have no idea what came over me. This morning, my mind told your mind that it wasn't sick. I believe that. But I don't know what else it might be."

"I'll find that out for you tonight," Arthur said. "And I'm not going to ask you to take point for me. You're going to stay in the room while I..."

"No."

"Yes. I don't want you getting near those people, at least until I find out what they fuck they have done."

"If it's even them," Eames reminded him.

"I have a feeling. It's the same feeling I got off Dinclusin the second I saw him looking at you like a piece of goddamn man-steak."

Arthur's hackles were up again, and suddenly, out of nowhere, Eames liked it. His entire mood shifted. He liked Arthur's messed up hair and cold hands and the rising color in his face. He even liked, a little bit, that Arthur still looked guilty over something that neither of them could put their finger on. It charged him up, it felt warm, hot even, that Arthur cared enough to get into such a frenzy. That Arthur would break rules for him, and make him break those same rules.

"Man-steak," Eames repeated. "Yes, I can see that, I have been called beefy before, if that's what you're implying. Perhaps he wants a bite, but I assure you that I won't grant him one, if that's your worry."

"Well I'm happy to see that you have your wits about you again, and no, asshole, that is not my worry." Arthur was angry because he was afraid – afraid on Eames's behalf and it made him feel powerful. "And I wasn't implying anything about your, whatever, I was just saying that I didn't like the way he was eyeballing you and I really think he's up to something and it's not on the up and up, he's a sharper, I know one when I smell one and I got a slant on him the second he was getting a slant on _you._ He pulled something fancy and here you are acting like someone safe-cracked your head, so _yeah_ I got my hackles up." 

He gave Eames a light shove with no real meaning behind it other than to show that he was upset and not to be fucked with at the moment. It was Arthur's terrified bravado; Eames saw it rarely but had come to learn it. He hadn't realized how much he'd worried Arthur, and while it made him feel a little worse, it also gave him a thrill.

"Now are you gonna let me handle this?" Arthur demanded. "And are we gonna quit with all this talk about 'trick this' and 'betray that'? Because honestly you should know better by now, yeah, okay I already said that anyone can con anyone at any time, and if I ever conned you, I'm _sorry._ I don't know why you would think that; I don't know why I'd have a reason to con you either, unless I did something stupid because I love you, and I just don't want you to be sick."

Eames had no idea what Arthur was talking about, but the words, the entire string of phrases, hit him like a ball of ice to the chest. He considered his own babbling before, begging Arthur not to die young. There was something about it he almost remembered, something fucked up, an actual reason, maybe. He had no idea what it was.

Arthur stood staring at him, his lips pressed into a tight line. He looked miserable and afraid, leaning away from Eames and into the white stone of the church.

"I'm not sick," Eames said, gently, choosing his response and his tone of voice with great care. "And neither are you. We established that. The mind can lie to itself at a certain level, but three layers down it can't. So let's forget about that. All right?"

Arthur nodded.

"As to these strange feelings about betrayal? Quite possibly we worked through some issues with each other while we were down there together and it's coloring how we feel today. It can happen, we both know how dark it can be that deep under. Whatever happened down there doesn't change anything. We're reasonable creatures, far more reasonable than the Id of our subconscious. We swim in dangerous waters for a living. We won't drown now."

Another nod. Some of the fire went out of Arthur's eyes, and some of the fight. Eames knew he wasn't addressing what Arthur had really said; in his own way, he was running away from it and Arthur was allowing him to.

"I feel better," Eames said. "Do you?"

"Yes."

"Are you on top of your game for tonight? Hitting on all eights or whatever it is?"

"Yes."

"Good." 

He once again grabbed the back of Arthur's neck and pulled him into a kiss – an actual one, the way he liked to do it, not desperate and confused like before. Arthur pulled him up close so that Eames was pinning him to the wall again. He wondered if part of that was to shield himself from the cold wind. Arthur slid his hands into Eames's coat and felt up the sides of his ribs. His hands felt good all over him, like they always did.

"I didn't mean..." Arthur murmured against his jaw, when Eames let him up for a breath.

He pulled away and pointed his finger in Arthur's face. "Don't you dare take it back."

Arthur batted his hand away. "I just meant, I don't mean it in a possessive way." He leaned in to kiss his neck, clearly so he wouldn't have to look at him. "I'm sorry if I'm acting like a dog with a bone. I don't mean it like that."

"Arthur, can you please for once not be a twat and ruin something by over-talking? Fuck."

"Nothing has to change," Arthur went on anyway. "We're, you know, good the way we are."

"Did I not just tell you to shut your gob? Do as you're told for once." To his side, from the front of the church, he heard the squeal of air-brakes as the tour bus pulled up. "Right, let's wrap this up quickly."

Arthur pulled him closer by the hips and said, "What do you mean? You want to, what... _finish_ or something? Here?"

"Christ," Eames said, "why are you so filthy? I meant finish talking about what's going on tonight."

"Oh." Arthur let go of his trousers and caught his breath. "Right. So, okay, change of plans." He took a second to shove Eames away from him. Then he tried to finger-comb his hair back into place, and failed spectacularly, so he just snatched his hat back from Eames and pulled it over his ears. "We should probably head back now, because we know that the two Fenderlyn guard-dogs are here and they're carrying. Dinclusin and Dromelius could be anywhere so I'll stake out their compartment when I get back and set up to put them under."

"I've got the sedative we used on Fischer. That works in seconds."

"Great, that's the one I need. I take Dinclusin under, see if he's, like you said, the king in this hand. And then if he is, then..."

"Then we bring out the aces." Eames flipped a card from out of his sleeve: the ace of spades, and held it up in front of Arthur. It was such an old trick, but Arthur smiled like he always did. 

"Your hand isn't shaking."

"Good enough for government work," Eames said. "I'll take point and I'll still distract the lot of them at the table later."

"No. What did I just tell you? You stay in the room and away from them."

"I am honestly fine."

Arthur didn't budge. "Whatever, that's the plan."

"Arthur..."

"I'm field commander on this one, Eames. Are we good?"

Eames sighed. "Good." 

Arthur kissed him again, just as the voices of the many travelers from the bus overtook the silence. 

On a whim, and just to test something out, Eames reached around Arthur's back and tried to lift his wallet. His hand immediately went numb and slack. Arthur's wallet fell to the stone ground behind him.

"What?" Arthur asked, confused, looking over his shoulder. "Did you just...? Eames?"

His throat felt dry and tight. No, he wasn't dying; he had just finished convincing Arthur of that. But this was still not natural. A cold, unpleasant tingle crept from his fingertips to his shoulder. He bent down and picked Arthur's wallet up, holding it out to him.

"Just an experiment," he said. "Wanted to try my hand. Didn't work, obviously."

Arthur pocketed his wallet and then took his hand and looked it over, as if he could see the strangeness, the sickness that Eames felt in it. "All right," Arthur said. "Okay. So, it makes a weird kind of sense if you think about it. Someone doesn't want you stealing. Someone got to you. Tonight we find out if it was who I think it was. Don't panic."

"I'm not." He was.

Arthur frowned and glanced over his shoulder. "Jesus, Eames, look."

Before Eames could look, in fact before he could even gather his wits enough to worry, Arthur pulled him to huddle against the inside of the alcove, out of the sight-lines that led through the arched doors. He peered around the doorway, pressing a finger to his lips. Then he leaned back and let Eames have a look.

Michelle was walking across the snow-covered park to the side of the church. She wore a camouflage coat with a hood and obvious faux fur lining. Her demeanor and clothing projected the precise opposite of a rich couple's daughter and that was probably the idea. She had one hand stuffed into her voluminous pocket, and she walked her head down. Her other hand toyed with something small, round, and shiny. It fit into her palm. A mirror, Eames realized. 

Most of the crowd was still clustered at the front of the church. Most, but not all. Ann Dromelius walked a good twenty paces behind Michelle. Her blond hair almost faded into the white backdrop of snow and sky, and her grey, fitted coat worked almost as an actual camouflage. The flap of her white, leather purse was open. Eames knew, with the instinct of a thief, what had just happened. He knew, and Ann knew. 

Michelle, however, didn't realize that she'd been caught. Ann followed behind her slowly, placid, smiling.

"Interference," Eames whispered to Arthur. Arthur nodded. 

They both started out the doorway but only made it a few steps before Michelle collapsed into the snow.

** ** ** **

Arthur's heart hadn't quit pounding since Eames had begun babbling about him dying old, and then Eames had nearly fainted all over him and he'd panicked and felt that strange, nagging fucking _guilt_ that he'd felt all morning and then he'd stupidly run his idiot mouth and said way too much and he was now having a total stress-spike when the little brat that kept following him everywhere showed up in the middle of a snowy field being trailed by a shady dame and then fell unconscious in the snow.

Arthur was having such a shit day.

He and Eames raced toward the fallen kid as the crowd started to come around the side of the church. It was a damn good thing that all those people saw her lying there before he and Eames got to her. He could only imagine the looks they'd get if they'd been hanging around her first.

As it was, Michelle's mom—Helen, Arthur remembered--pushed in front of everyone and came running over to her daughter, followed quickly by the dad, whom Arthur had seen but not met.

He and Eames both started to hang back once they saw the group of people already crowding her. Arthur knew from experience how awful it was to wake up with a circle of faces looking down at you. Ann hung around the edges of the crowd too, playing the concerned onlooker. Arthur kept an eye on her. He didn't like her expression; she looked more amused than concerned.

"Oh, drat it all," Helen said, kneeling beside her daughter. "Not again."

He and Eames looked at each other. 

"It's all right," Michelle's father said to the converging group. "She's got a condition. She's all right, go back to what you were doing. I'm her father, I'm a doctor. Please give her some air."

No one minded him. They just kept clustering around Michelle and her parents.

Eames stepped up and said, "Right, come on then. All of you clear off." 

He was doing that thing that Arthur had seen him do, where he suddenly seemed to gain three inches in height, where his voice carried above all the others. He became the man he was when he actually wanted people's attention. The group listened to him, scattering away from his presence as if he were physically shoving them. That was the thing: Eames could forge while he was awake, too. 

"Go on," Eames said, shooing the last of the people away. "Go and look at the pretty church now, everything is under control."

Unsurprisingly, Ann had left, too. That was okay. Arthur would maybe take a quick gander into her head later, as well. 

"Thanks," Michelle's father said, glancing up to Eames.

"Oh yes," Helen added. "Thank you, yes. My daughter has chronic hypoglycemia, you see. Stupidly low blood sugar. If she so much as forgets to eat a bit, down she goes."

"Mom?" Michelle murmured. She sat up in the snow, pale and dizzy, and pressed a hand to her forehead. "Did I... Oh crap." A creeping, mortified blush chased her paleness as she looked up and saw not only her parents and the retreating crowd, but Arthur and Eames both standing over her. "Crap," she repeated. She looked near tears.

"Hey now," Eames said, crouching next to her. "You can't go making snow angels here, this is a holy place. Stop messing about. You'll get us all kicked out."

It always amazed Arthur that for all that Eames could not be bothered with children, he was without fail completely at ease with them.

"Did you forget your snack, you dumb child?" her mother chided. Her words were harsh, but her eyes were fond. She helped Michelle up with a hand on her elbow. 

"I didn't, Mom. _God_." Michelle stood up on shaky legs and dusted off her ratty camo coat. "I'm all right." She jerked her arm away from her mother's grip as if a viper had wound around her elbow.

"You should go back to the train," her father said. "We ought to get you some rest."

"I _said..._ "

"Your dad's right," Arthur said. He had no idea why he said it. The words came out of his mouth the way intuition often did and he decided not to fight it. The father just stared at him, not sure if he should be wary, insulted, or thankful. "I'm Arthur," he added, holding out his hand. "Michelle came to my aid when I wasn't feeling well yesterday."

"Yes, hello," the father said, shaking hands. "I'm Daniel. Yes, I heard all about you. Sounded a bit worrying, your momentary language troubles. Michelle told me."

Michelle huffed again and stuffed her hands deep into her pockets. Obviously this was supposed to remain a secret.

"I'm all right," Arthur said. "This is my partner, Mr. Eames."

"What is it," Helen asked them both, giving them a reserved and exquisitely polite smile, "that the two of you do?"

"FBI," Arthur said without thinking about it. He grabbed his wallet—the one Eames had failed to steal; he would deal with that later—and flashed the false ID that Eames had forged for him years ago. Helen looked closely at it. She read every word and Arthur saw her look at the seal to see if it was raised.

It was a lie, the FBI gambit, but it wasn't too far off the mark. Arthur had been asked to Quantico on a few occasions and he did have a connection there. As long as he watched his step, and occasionally handed them the goods, they had a symbiotic relationship. It was looking possible that he'd be handing them some more goods in the near future, if his suspicions about Dinclusin turned out to be correct.

"SRR," Eames said, "but out now due to injury. Pleased to meet you both."

"Oh, my," Helen said, intrigued, and buying it immediately from Eames like she hadn't from Arthur. 

This, also, wasn't too huge a lie. Eames had done a bit of time in Special Forces before turning rogue with dreamshare. And he did have some injuries. The best lies were the ones that weren't totally lies.

"So," Helen said, "are the two of you..." She waved her hand vaguely between them.

" _Mom!_ " Michelle said through clenched teeth. "Jesus, stop!"

"We met overseas," Eames said, smiling, charming, looking sweet, strangely shy and youthful, not at all intimidating, and completely deflecting the question. Sometimes it was amazing to watch him work when he wasn't in dreams. "We were heading back to the train by cab; Arthur is exhausted and he can't do buses. If you'd like, we could escort her back as well."

Arthur had asked once why he was always the one who was too tired or ill to go on, in all of Eames's scams. ' _Because you're pale,_ Eames had told him. _'You look tragic and people like that._ '

"Oh, would you?" Helen asked. Her eyes were alight with fondness. Eames had already won her over. "Oh, Danny, we could finish up the tour. Dollymop will be all right with two special agents, don't you think?"

Michelle dropped her head into her hands.

"What do you think, Michelle?" her father asked.

Michelle didn't look up from her hands as she said, "Okay. If you'll both stop talking."

"Well, that's that, then," Eames said. "We'll get a snack and lock her into her room until your return."

"Yes, take her away, the wretch can't even bear to look at us, poor abused thing," Helen said. She pulled Michelle to her and kissed the top of her head anyway. "Use your cell phone to actually call us if you don't feel better, will you?"

Michelle grunted in reply.

"Come along then, Dollymop," Eames said.

They left the church. Arthur didn't look back; the entire episode left a bad feeling in his gut. The place was beautiful, but he would forever associate it with their strange little shared breakdown.

They got a cab and Eames hustled Arthur into the front seat, doubtless so that he could have a word with Michelle. He put her into the back, and got in beside her, speaking quick Russian to the driver. In the mirror, Arthur saw him hold his hand out to Michelle. His demeanor changed entirely, quickly, the way it always did.

"Let's see it," he said.

Michelle looked at Arthur in the mirror, as if he was going to save her. "Are you going to arrest me?" she asked.

"No," Arthur said. "We just want to know what happened."

She dug into her pocket and drew out the small compact mirror. "I saw it sparkling in her purse and I wanted it. That's all, no big deal. She'll just think she lost it."

Arthur watched in the mirror as she went to place the compact in Eames's open hand. As soon as it got close, his hand began to shake. He closed his fist. Arthur turned around in the seat and leaned over it, meeting Eames's eyes.

"Hand it to Arthur," Eames said. His voice sounded low and unsure.

Confused, Michelle gave Arthur the mirror and then sat back against the seat. Arthur took another look at Eames, at his hand, which was still curled into a fist, and then back at his eyes. The look he had confirmed what Arthur suspected: He somehow could not touch the mirror without some symptom of either numbness or pain. 

He turned his attention to the closed compact. Flecks of glass and gems outlined the edges of the cover. In the center, an etching of a cobra snake seemed to writhe to life amidst the glinting of the gems. Arthur very nearly opened it. He had his finger on the button to click the top up, but his intuition stayed his hand. There was something inside the compact, and it was probably a hell of a lot more than just a mirror.

"Did you open it?" he asked Michelle.

"Yeah."

"And that's when you fainted?"

"Are you shitting me?" Eames said, before Michelle could answer.

"Oh my god, what?" she asked, nervous. "Is there poison in there or something?"

Arthur had no idea. He thought of the flowers in the room the first night and was suddenly very glad he had his gloves on. Fingerprints notwithstanding, he was more worried about what it would get on him, rather than the other way around. 

Or, it could be that she'd hidden a camera in there. Or both, really. He could flip it open and Ann Dromelius could be gazing right at his mug before whatever was in it knocked him on his back as well. There could even be a camera on the outside, he mused. He shoved it into his back pocket and hoped that she enjoyed the view. He'd take this thing apart later. Or maybe he would dummy up, and just give it back to her, saying he'd seen her drop it.

It depended on what he found in her head later.

** ** ** **

 

"Where's your compartment, pet?" Eames asked the girl as he walked her onto the train. Arthur trailed behind them, quiet. Eames knew he was in his headspace, going through scenario upon scenario, and taking the mirror apart in his mind without touching it. That was fine. Arthur worked well inside his own head and Eames didn't want to disturb him.

Also, he couldn't help. His hand had felt burningly hot when Michelle had offered him the mirror. The message was clear: _You do not want stolen things._ Apparently Arthur had no trouble touching it, though.

They needed to discuss this without the sprog, and they needed to get to work.

Arthur fell back a few paces until he was a ways down the corridor of the train. Only a few of the staff passed him in the hall and Eames knew that he was casing the place, checking their routines to see when he could best break into Dinclusin's apartment. Eames followed Michelle to hers and left Arthur to his business.

"Come on," she wheedled. "Tell me what's going on here. Is she an agent too? Are you going to arrest her? Is she a terrorist or something, because if she is then I think everyone needs to know. And I don't want to be on this train when it blows up or gets derailed or something. Don't you have to alert people if that's what's going to happen? You can't put us in danger."

"I don't know who she is," Eames said. "I don't even know that she's done anything wrong."

Michelle plonked herself onto the bottom bed, in despair. "What if that was anthrax she put on the mirror?"

"Doubt it," Eames said. He leaned against the door and gave it some thought. "There are sedatives that can act quickly with the smallest amount. It probably wasn't meant for you. But you get fainting spells anyway, correct? So it could be nothing at all." _Or_ , he didn't say, _just nothing to do with you._ But then he remembered Ann's calm, amused look as Michelle had walked away from her with the stolen mirror. Someone didn't want Eames stealing and had gotten into his head to tell him so. Michelle was a little thief herself.

"Steal a lot?" he asked her.

"Spare me."

"I need to know. Believe me when I tell you I have no room to judge. There are further reasons as to why I'm no longer in the service."

She looked up at him, wary, as if testing his honesty. Then she shrugged. "I like it, sometimes. It's not like I need anything, but I think, you never know when you might need to have fast hands. It's just for practice."

"Any strange feelings when you lifted that mirror from her?"

"Not really. I just got dizzy and fell."

"But you ate, so it wasn't hypoglycemia."

"We're back to her giving me anthrax."

Eames waved her off. "Right. Listen, sprog. Stay in this room tonight. Tell your mum and dad you feel ill and don't come out until morning. Watch cartoons or play your Pac Man or something but you must leave us in peace for tonight." He chose his words purposely to sound dated and unfashionable, to see if he could get her to smile or laugh. Smiles and laughs were often precursors to agreement.

She smiled, but didn't agree. "I have to come out for dinner. And jesus, why are you talking like you're 80? You're funny, but you're not _that_ funny. Come on, tell me what's up. Maybe I can help you."

"No. No helping whatsoever. Keep your head down and keep far away from that woman and her friends. Stay clear of me and stay clear of Arthur. Don't take it personally, Dollymop. I was not kidding when I said that I can't be responsible for children."

She slumped against the bed, defeated. "Is Arthur really in the FBI? Are you really Special Forces?"

"No more questions," he said, and started to draw the door closed.

"Are you two married?" she asked, before he had pulled it entirely shut.

He threw the door open again. "Beg your pardon?"

"You're all like, 'Oh, we're not boyfriends.' So are you married?"

Eames rubbed his hands over his face and pressed his palms against his eyes. Since when did people think it was all right to get into his business? In the past, he and Arthur had, by necessity, pretended to be married as part of a con, or had been open about being together, or whatever it was they actually were (he'd never thought of a name for it and didn't want to now,) but he had never felt comfortable with it. You just never showed your hand like that. It made it too easy for people to use against you.

"We're not married," he said. He tried to fight back a tired laugh at himself, at the fact that he was not only answering the question, but actually considering it, choosing his answers as he wondered about it himself. After more than ten years, someone was asking him to define it, and he couldn't. "We work together a lot because Arthur is the best at what he does and so am I."

"But you were making out by the church. So I figured that meant you were, you know. Together like that."

He literally wanted to slap himself. So his moment of weakness had cost him their discretion, and he was lucky if the sprog had been the only one to see. Unlucky indeed if Ann had been lurking around even then – although by now she probably also knew that she could get to one by using the other. A frantic snog probably wasn't necessary to prove it.

"Um," Michelle went on, "and he stares at you the way people stare at the Mona Lisa when they see it at the Louvre. If it's supposed to be some big state secret, guess what? It's not."

"This conversation is over," Eames said, with no real malice. It wasn't her fault he'd been so stupidly throwing himself at Arthur.

"I'm just saying," she said, "if you guys have known each other for all those years and you have sex..."

"Oh, fuck my life."

"And you're not having sex with anyone else, then you should just call a fig a fig. Instead of calling it like, an olive or something. When it's not an olive."

"My figs are none of your business," Eames said, and pulled the door closed.

As he walked down the corridor, he could still hear her laughing.

He found Arthur in their own compartment. He was sat cross-legged on the bottom bed, wearing blue latex gloves and goggles over his wire-framed glasses. He had a small kit of tools beside him and was screwing the hinge of the compact back on. 

"Anything?" Eames asked.

Arthur's mouth turned down and that line of frustration creased between his eyebrows. "There was, but it's gone now. There is definitely a compartment in here for something. I didn't find any tech. It lights up, but the battery is dead. If there's a camera or bug in here, it's out of my league." He looked up from his work and removed his ridiculous goggles. They left red lines on his forehead and under his eyes. "How's Michelle?"

"Seems all right. Too nosy for her own good. Or ours, I might add." He didn't need to embarrass Arthur by telling him that she'd seen Eames trying to climb him like a tree. 

"Umm, I hope you don't mind," Arthur said, "but I had to go into your work station to get the sedative. I wanted to set it up for a remote release as quick as I could and when none of the train staff was hanging around, so I..."

"That's all right," Eames said.

"I didn't touch anything else. I know fingerprints can fuck up your work. I wore gloves."

"Arthur, it's all right. You are in fact allowed to touch my things."

Arthur smiled, not looking up, and put the compact down. He reached for his Glock and began to field strip it for cleaning. 

Eames took a seat on the bed beside him. Tentatively, he reached for the compact mirror on the bed. He saw Arthur glance at his hand, trying to be casual about it. When Eames tried to run his finger across the etched top, a feeling of revulsion made his hand falter. He imagined the snake rearing up and sinking tiny, venomous fangs into the pad of his finger. Arthur was still watching, even as he continued stripping the Glock. To prove a point, Eames touched the snake on top of the mirror. The touch only lasted a second. Nausea burned through his stomach at the touch. He took a deep breath and moved his hand.

Arthur directed his attention back to the Glock, though surely he must have known that touching the stolen mirror had affected Eames. He didn't comment on it.

"Umm," Arthur said. Which, in Arthur-speak, meant that he was going to say something he found difficult.

Eames sat back against the wall and waited it out. The train was motionless and the room was silent without the steady drone of the rails under it. Arthur continued disassembling his gun, baring its insides for cleaning.

"When we were at the church this morning and I was, when you were, and I said. You know, I just wanted to clarify. I wasn't trying to take it back. I just meant, not that I have to qualify it, but the word means so many different things in different contexts and it doesn't change anything, nothing's different." When Eames didn't answer, it forced Arthur to finally look at him. The Glock lay in pieces around his crossed legs, entirely disassembled. "You had to have known."

Eames leaned in and kissed him, running his thumb across his jaw. "I did know," he said against his mouth. "And you must know that I love you, Arthur. I took a bullet for you, didn't I."

Arthur drew back, confused. "When?"

"Are you serious?"

"On the bridge?" Arthur asked. "Pretty sure that one was meant for you."

"No, not on the fucking bridge. Berlin, Arthur? Six years ago? Bleeding behind the trash bins for hours until we found an escape route? Any of this ringing a bell?"

"You got shot that time?" Arthur asked. He wasn't even fucking around.

"I'm going to punch you in the cock," Eames said. " _Yes_ I fucking got shot, I jumped in front of you at the last possible moment. Prick. How could you not remember that?"

"I'm sorry, it's a blur!" Arthur said, throwing his hands up in defense. "I was a little drugged at the time, don't take it personally. I don't even remember a firefight."

"There fucking well was, and I got shot for you, and let me tell you. It would have gone right through your chest had I not shoved you away, and that is why my arm was bleeding for hours behind the trash bins."

"I mean, it's not like I don't realize that you saved me plenty of times before. I know you did. You pulled me out of an interrogation room, out of a fire, out of the fucking _ground._ You've saved my ass a lot. My ass realizes it owes you a life debt." Arthur's voice had an endearing tendency to crack when he was worked up, as if he were going through puberty.

"Your arse owes me nothing," Eames said. He could never stay irritated with Arthur when his voice got all crackly like that. "I will absolutely collect on the offer of course, but it's not a matter of owing, you see. You've saved my arse just as many times. Your arse jumped across an alley thirty stories up for my arse."

"It wasn't thirty."

"Be that as it may. There is no owing between you and me. I only wanted you to know how little there is in the world that I would not do for you. I've worked with the best in the business. I've traveled the entire globe and lived a lifetime in dreams and died a thousand times. I've seen and understood things that most people can't even fathom. I've slept with porn stars. But there is one thing that I keep going back to and it's always been you. There is only one Arthur."

One Arthur, who sat on the bed staring at him, pieces of his gun scattered around him, one hand holding the grip, the other one empty, palm up, on his knee. A smudge on his wire-frame glasses and his hair in disarray, a few white strands among dark curls. The pretty bow of his mouth open and unsure of what to say. Eames loved leaving Arthur speechless like this. It made his day.

"It's only one in the afternoon," Arthur said. "We have some time before they get back, if you want to fuck."

"Yes, lovely. That works."

He removed Arthur's glasses, undid the top two buttons of his shirt, got frustrated with that, and pushed him down against the bed. He slid his thigh between Arthur's, and his hand followed.

"Wait a sec," Arthur said, shifting underneath him.

"No," Eames told him. "Stop fidgeting."

"The trigger housing is poking me."

"What are you calling it, now?" Eames braced himself on his elbow but did not stop fondling Arthur.

Arthur reached under his back and pulled something out, holding it up. It was a piece of the Glock. "Trigger housing."

"Oh." Eames went back to kissing his neck. "Blast them for having so many parts."

"Mmm," Arthur said.

Then, Eames went entirely still. His breath stopped in his throat, and the ice-cold feeling of intuition locked up his spine. It sucked all the sex clean out of him.

"What?" Arthur asked, understanding years of body language between them.

"I'm having a thought."

"Better be important."

Eames pulled away from him and sat up. There was something on his mind, something he thought he should know, but didn't know he knew yet. Or if he did, he wasn't sure how to get there. It had something to do with Arthur's disassembled Glock.

"Spill," Arthur prompted.

"Let me think." Except, Eames didn't think, not when it came to this. He let his mind go blank and quiet. It came to him, bit by bit. Just a theory, nothing more, but it was one that consumed him, overwhelmed him with intuition. "Arthur, when you brought the Glock on the train, did you have it assembled?"

"No, of course not. The last thing I need is for someone to find me carrying. I had it in pieces. Not just field stripped, but totally disassembled. Why?"

"The two men today. The jacks in this hand."

"The Fenderlyn guys?"

"What were they carrying?"

"I didn't see," Arthur said. "I just saw the outline... Oh. Shit. I might know what you're getting at?"

"It's just a thought," Eames cautioned. "But you were very careful about not being seen carrying. Those two were not so cautious. Why weren't they? Anyone with sharp eyes could see they were armed, yet they had no problem getting past security. Why would they not care who knew? Why would security not care?"

Arthur stared at him, considering. "Do you really think so?" He waved his hand, dismissing the question. "Fuck. _I_ think so. Yes. They walked onto the train both obviously armed. No one questioned them."

The chill in Eames's blood came to the surface and he shivered. It always felt like that when his gut was telling him something and it was true, it was right. Arthur called it his Spider Sense. It wasn't tingling, it was blaring.

"Let me go into the dreams, Arthur, and why don't you take point? I can forge..."

"Eames, _you can't steal._ How are you supposed to extract? And you don't even know who to forge. I've got this. Just keep everyone away from the compartment for five, ten minutes tops, so that I can wipe it clean."

"I don't like it," Eames said. No, not tonight. Tonight felt bad. 

"As is often the case," Arthur told him, "we don't have a choice."

** ** ** **

 

Arthur sat alone in their compartment on the train, his finger on the button that would release the quick-acting sedative into Dinclusin's room. Eames had left fifteen minutes ago and Arthur sat still, waiting for the signal. 

They'd talked for a few minutes, straining to find something that made sense, trying to see if their idea fit: that somehow, the Fenderlyn brothers—the jacks, as Eames called them—were involved with the train's staff. If, in fact, Dinclusin and Dromelius were, too. Nothing made sense. They talked in circles.

After about fifteen minutes, they gave up and Eames finished unbuttoning Arthur's shirt and pushed it off his shoulders. He put his thighs and his hands and his mouth back where they'd been before he'd figured out about the guns. And it was good, and hard, and necessary. Eames wrung the excess adrenaline out of him like he always did. And Eames – his hands had worked just fine, not a single hitch. Because, Arthur mused, he was only putting his hands on something that was already his.

His nerves had settled after that, and maybe he'd even fallen into a light sleep. It was easy, with Eames's head on his chest, his hand curling around Arthur's ribs, and all the alarms set up in their compartment. For a few minutes, it felt like peace.

It actually had to have been real, honest sleep, because there was no way he was lying on the bed, suddenly looking at a face with its mouth stretched wide, revealing too many white teeth. He blinked and it was gone. He didn't freak out. It was a dream. He dreamed naturally sometimes, especially under duress.

Still, Eames felt him wake up and moved off of him.

After, they'd sat on the bed going over every eventuality and making plans for the worst. If Dinclusin didn't show up in his room. If all four of them showed up. If they made a move on anyone. If Arthur found something in his head. If he found nothing.

He hoped to find something, some evidence that Dinclusin had fucked around with them, or even knew of someone who had. Just that one answer that would explain everything. Something he could chase, fight, and ultimately fix. 

They'd thrown about the idea of inception, even though it seemed unlikely. Arthur only knew of the one, and he'd been part of that. Everything else was rumors.

Of course, some rumors held a grain of truth. Sometimes there really was fire beneath the smoke. And if so, there was nowhere the smoke of rumor billowed more than at a dreamtech. 

Eames was going to call Arthur to give him the signal when Dinclusin went into his room. But no one had even returned to the train yet and he reckoned he had a little time. He could make one call. He calculated the time. It was 4:30 where he was. 2:30 in Paris.

He dialed Cobb.

Cobb picked up on the second ring and said "Hello, this is Dom Cobb," as if he hadn't checked who was calling, first. He was probably in his office.

"Hey, it's Arthur."

"Oh!" Dom brightened, like he always did when Arthur called. "Hey! How's Russia?"

"Cold." He could almost hear Cobb thinking, _Typical._ "But really beautiful," he added. "Umm, great food, really cool train, amazing architecture."

"Is Eames there?"

"Not... not currently. Listen, I actually need to ask you something. It's kind of important."

"Well, fuck," Cobb said. "This was supposed to be your vacation, Arthur. What's wrong?"

Arthur laughed, trying to sound more casual than as bitter and pissed off as he felt. "Believe it or not, it's a question about inception. And, for instance, how one might know if it had happened."

"Arthur." Dom sounded more than concerned, more than stern and professor-ly and big brotherish. "Get off the train and come to Paris. Let me have a look."

"Much as I hate to admit it, we might have to. But first I'm going to take a look inside someone's head."

As briefly as he could, he recounted the essentials of what had happened since they got on the train. Dom made noises of concentration as Arthur spoke, which usually meant that he was taking notes. 

"You're sure this couldn't have something to do with what happened last time?" Dom asked. "I mean, I was about 99 percent sure we'd gotten everything out of both of you, actually out of all of us, the entire dream-glitch. But this is the subconscious we're talking about, not an operation. The brain holds onto things, regrows them like weeds."

Arthur knew that. He counted on it. The dream-glitch he'd gotten, well... it hadn't been all bad, really. "It's not that," he said. "It doesn't feel like it. With Eames, it's acting like an inception. Just, I don't know how they would have got to him. And honestly, I don't know of any other dreamwalker who could pull it off, and I definitely haven't heard of any teams with the kind of manpower and skill it would take to get to him. So I was just wondering if you'd heard anything from the students. Like the last time."

Dom laughed, a bit self-deprecating. "The only rumors I hear are about our team," he said. "I've never heard our names mentioned, only that there was one spectacularly incredible team that pulled it off."

"I see."

"People do talk about it, but only as a theory, or as a myth, Arthur. I only know of the two times it actually worked. And both of them, you know. Were me."

"Right."

"As far as I'm aware, it's rare to even attempt it. The only other person I've ever actually met who tried it before us was Eames."

"I know it's mostly thought of as an urban... Wait. What?"

Cobb went silent, obviously weighing how much trouble he had just caused. 

"No, it's okay," Arthur said. "I just didn't know. What is this about?"

"You should ask him yourself, Arthur. I don't actually know the story."

"I didn't know there _was_ a story. It's no big deal." Arthur thought in fact that it was probably a pretty big deal. "I only have a small window of time to try to extract from this guy, and Eames is running point for me; I can't grab him and ask him. Tell me what I need to know."

"There's not much to tell," Cobb said. "He told me right before Fischer that he and a team—he didn't say who—had tried it once and failed. He just said that the idea didn't take. What the idea was, who he tried to do it to, when this even happened, I have no idea. He didn't seem too interested in it; chalked it up to a failed job, sounded like. He honestly didn't know much about it."

"I get that," Arthur said. "And it's really probably got nothing to do with this." His gut instinct told him it did. "I just..."

His phone pinged, telling him he'd gotten the signal from Eames.

"Cobb, I gotta go, it's time."

"Arthur." As always, Cobb's voice stilled him and made him listen. "Be careful. Talk about this. Don't rush in."

"I won't." He was going to.

"Call me when you're done. I mean it, Arthur. Let me know what's going on."

"I will. Cobb, thanks. I really have to run."

"Jesus Christ," Cobb sighed, and ended the call.

There was never any sense wishing for more time, more words, more intel, when he'd run out. It was time.

Arthur pressed the button and released the sedative into the room down the hall. 

** ** ** **  
He sought it within his blood: the calm that came before the job. Whatever may come next, whatever he might find around the corner that would upset his careful plans, Arthur usually held onto his control. As he walked down the narrow, red-lined corridor, the train moving under him once more, he breathed steadily, deeply, thinking it through. The silver PASIV was in its black case, clutched in his hand.

It now seemed obvious that he was dealing with other dreamwalkers who knew more about him and Eames than the other way around. If that was the case, then they knew he was coming. But, he'd already sedated them. He couldn't turn back. This might be his only chance; he would deal with the fallout later. He'd worked against rival teams before, so this shouldn't be too much of a challenge. He only wished that Eames had had the foresight to tell him that he'd attempted an inception once before. Arthur didn't know why that felt like part of this problem, but it did. He couldn't actually fault Eames for not making the connection. He only wished he had.

He saw Eames a few cars ahead, or at least, saw the back of him. He had his casual posture on, and didn't look anything at all like a man taking point and giving Arthur a clear few minutes to break into a train compartment. He looked like a man who simply took up a lot of space, and was too clumsy to elegantly move out of the way when one of the staff was trying to pass him.

In any other job, Eames would just have pilfered a key to the room. As it was, Arthur had to use his lockpick. It was a bit inelegant, and would be more obvious when they woke up, but by then everything would be obvious. He was playing his final hand and he knew it. 

He slipped into the room just as Eames finally let the train-staff guy pass.

The sight that greeted Arthur in Dinclusin's room did not make him happy. He'd expected to find Dinclusin sprawled on the floor, the result of a fall after having been dosed with sedative.

What he found instead was both Dinclusin and Ann. Neither of them were on the floor. Instead, they were each in bed, supine, hands folded over their chests. Dinclusin's mouth looked to be smirking at him. _We're waiting so politely for you,_ their postures said. Fuck, they knew, they _knew_ , they had expected this, they'd somehow even expected him to drug them.

He still had to go through with it. He couldn't forge, but he could extract. And he still had a few secrets tucked away, something he had kept even from Cobb. Eames knew because he'd told him. They worked together and couldn't afford to surprise each other. But to the rest of the dream world, Arthur was just the point man. They didn't know that he could still be terrifying, overwhelming, electrifying if he needed to be.

They didn't know about the program he'd stolen, re-written and hardwired into his mind. He'd hung onto the remnants of that.

Arthur set the PASIV down, opened it, and pulled out the wires. He needed to take both of them under, Dromelius and Dinclusin. If she woke, she could so easily put a bullet in his brain. This would be a quick dream-walk, and a brutal one, by necessity. If he fried their brains in the process, well, he would feel bad about that later. Maybe. Depending on what he found.

He hooked them both up, hooked himself up, and pressed the button. He was ready to open his eyes in the dream and lay waste, if he had to.

But when he opened his eyes, there was nothing to lay waste to.

The dream was black, a night at sea with no stars. Arthur tried to create light, tried to dream up space. Nothing. If he could imagine being inside the dream of a corpse, this would be it.

Then the dark started to move around him. It took form, took function, tugged at him. It pulled like a vortex at his insides. Whatever the dream was, it wanted to take him into it, deeper. He felt his back arching into it, as if it wanted to pull him guts-first into the center of itself. He felt himself being stolen, like an object.

Panicking, Arthur held on – to nothing, to everything. Mostly to himself. He tried to call on his own mind, everything he knew about dreams He tried to call up a gun, so he could eject himself. He found nothing.

Pain wracked his sides, his back, his chest. He felt his ribs snapping under the pressure of the black hole, fuck, christ, it was _eating ___him and he wished for it to be over soon, how could this be taking so long...

He heard a loud crack and his legs went numb. His mouth felt wet and hot, filled with blood that he couldn't see and he was choking on it. He breathed it in, trying to die quicker. His hands clawed at nothing and he heard someone laughing, an amused sound. 

Arthur leapt awake, frantic like he never was after a dream. He managed to bite back the scream that threatened at the top of his throat as the room spun around him. Fuck, he was caught, so _caught._

But Dromeluis and Dinclusin were still hooked up to the PASIV, still under, in the dream. Still both smiling vaguely in their sleep. Arthur wanted to lie back down, catch his breath and check his totem, but there was no time, and this was fucked up, _they_ were fucked up, and yes, they had gotten to him and Eames, obviously. 

He freed them from the cannulas with shaking hands and blotted down the spots of blood on their wrists, even though it didn't matter because they already knew; they had to. He wiped down the room too, because it was what he did. He put everything back where he'd found it, and took all of the sedative rigs he had previously set up. Only when he was out the door did he check his totem.

Arthur needed to re-set. He needed to get back to his room, tell Eames what had happened, and from there they would re-group. Work something out so that he could confront this other team on his terms. He wasn't sure what their options were, he only knew which option he did not have: They weren't going to run. They had to settle this.

He had extracted nothing, but had found at least one vital piece of information: They were better than he was.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 7: "Don't let him catch you..."

 

Back inside the compartment, Arthur hoped to find Eames there, so he could tell him everything. They'd sit out the rest of the night together, figuring this out. Arthur would make another call to Cobb. Eames, to whoever he knew. They'd dig up some information on these two; their names were unusual, someone had to know of them.

Except, when Arthur got to their room, Eames wasn't there. Arthur had told him to only run point for a few minutes, and then get the hell back to the room. The room was empty.

Arthur checked his phone. No messages. 

Swearing, he left the compartment and went back down the corridor. He had to pass the room he'd just left. Tactically unwise, he knew; but he didn't have a choice. He'd last seen Eames in the car ahead, so that was where he went.

The dinner crowd was starting to converge toward the restaurant car, after their long day of touring the city. Arthur forced himself to be polite, to not shove them aside. He tried not to act as frantic and boorish as he felt. The families they'd made up stories about that morning, they were there – the Nelsons, the plastic surgeon guy, the older couple in the matching outfits. 

He didn't see the Fenderlyn brothers, and he didn't see Eames. Making his way through the restaurant car, he kept his specs peeled mostly for them. 

"Hey. Hey, Arthur!" 

He turned to see Michelle running to catch up with him. He didn't have time for her. It must have shown on his face.

"Everything okay?" she said. "Because you look like hell."

"I'm fine. I'm looking for Eames."

"He went to the lounge car with those two guys, you know the ones? Those two guys, and they're always together? The brothers? He went with them and..."

"Thanks," he said, and hurried off.

"Hey!" she called after him.

He knew she was running to catch up, damn her, and he didn't need this, she was in the way. 

"Hey, Arthur! You dumbass, you said _merci_ to me. Come back here."

He almost stopped, his fingertips went cold for a second and his heart skipped a little. But so what? So he'd slipped into french again, okay, no big deal. Those people had obviously fucked with him, and going into their dream, sharing headspace with them, had brought that back to the surface. He'd deal with it.

He moved to the lounge car.

And there, in the back, at the same half-moon table he'd sat at the first night, was Eames. The two Fenderlyn brothers sat on either side of him. They were playing cards. Eames had a cigar and was casually sucking on it, pursing his lips around it, even talking around it, like the three of them were old friends. Like he had nothing to fear. He slapped cards onto the table and then for a second, held the cigar between his first two fingers and looked at it with curiosity. No one feigned casualness like Eames did, but no one could see through his guises like Arthur could. Something was wrong.

Eames was playing some kind of grift. That was it, he had some con going, and Arthur didn't know what it was, and, fuck, why hadn't Eames told him, this was so _foolish._ Especially because, clearly, he was uncomfortable with something. Arthur needed to talk to him, immediately. For a second he thought that it might not be a good idea to interrupt whatever he had going on – obviously Eames was still running point for him, and that meant he had to distract these two. These two guys, maybe they didn't know that Arthur had gone into Dinclusin's head. Or maybe they did know, and Eames didn't know they knew, and either way, it was a clusterfuck and trouble was brewing.

Arthur started towards the table. He would make up some kind of emergency, to call Eames away from them.

"Oh, now petal," said a delicate voice behind him. Slender fingers took hold of his elbow, nails digging in through his shirt.

He turned to see Ann, smiling, dignified, two steps behind him. As if he had not just minutes ago put her under. As if her mind, along with her brother's, hadn't just tried to devour his own.

"You look terrible," she said. "Come on now, sit with me. Don't bother the boys."

He pulled his arm away from her and took a step back.

"Don't cause a scene," she said. 

The hell of it was, she was right. There was nothing he could do, and drawing more attention to any of them would be the worst idea. He'd meant to confront them anyway, on his terms. He reckoned that now was the time. This was as close to his terms as he was likely to get.

"That's better," she said. Companionably, she smoothed the collars of his shirt, as if they'd known each other for years. "Come on, sit down with me, Arthur. Let me get you a glass of wine."

"No," he said. "No wine. I'm fine, thank you."

She pursed her red lips. "Well, all right then. But sit." She led him to the little, two-person table, the one he'd sat at with Michelle on that first night. 

Arthur made sure he sat facing Eames, across the room. Just in case those two should make a move on him. Or on anyone. There were way too many civilians in way too small a place for his comfort.

And speaking of, Michelle soon came into the car, followed by both of her parents. Arthur noted that she was holding her father's hand, as if she'd dragged him there. Christ, she wanted him to have a medical checkup here, right now, in the car. Subtly, he held his hand up to all of them: _I'm fine. Back off._ They did. It made him glad that he'd flashed them the fake FBI ID earlier. It kept them away, but the three of them still took seats around another small table, adjacent to his and a few yards away. The chatter and din was enough that they wouldn't be able to hear anything that he and Ann were saying to each other.

A waiter came by, and Ann ordered a glass of wine for herself. Arthur asked for a bottle of water. He was so thirsty, and while he knew that anyone could, at any time, slip something into his drink, he couldn't go without until they got off the train. That could be hours. It could be tomorrow.

He took a moment to compose himself on the inside, to smooth down his reactions, and to contain the adrenaline. 

"You still look young," Ann said. 

"What?" Her random commentary on his appearance threw him wildly off again.

"You have a youthful look that belies your nature. It wouldn't do to underestimate you. I think that's a deadly miscalculation that a lot of people have made. Am I wrong?"

"I don't know," Arthur said. "I don't think about it."

"You have no idea what's going on, do you?"

The water brought them their drinks. His water was still sealed but that didn't mean much. He opened it anyway and drank, weighing her words, his response, as she sipped her wine. "I guess I don't," he said.

"And you hate it," she went on. "Because that's what you do; you take information. You gather it, you store it, sometimes you deal in it. But you hate not knowing. Poor darling. For once in your career, you might actually be entirely innocent."

"Then what do you want?" he asked. "We can clear this right up. I'm fair, when I'm treated fairly. So is my partner."

"And when you feel you haven't been treated fairly?"

"We probably don't have to find out," he said. 

She giggled, a high, merry sound. "Oh, Arthur. You're delightful. I like you very much. I always have, you know."

"You don't even know me," he said. "Don't try to pull that shit. I have no idea who you are."

"No?" She sighed. "No, of course you don't. Your poor head, all these years, all those people running around inside of it, changing this memory and adding that one. How many times has inception been accomplished, Arthur?"

He fought not to clench his hand around the bottle of water. He held onto his cool, even as her words chilled him. Forced ice into his veins. Could this be about Fischer? About Cobb? How could she know about those things?

"You don't know?" she asked. "But you stopped to think about it."

"Inception is a rumor," he said.

'Yes, yes, yes, don't think about elephants. Who taught you that? Who taught you about inception?"

He opened his mouth to answer. Nothing came out. 

"Oh, lambie lamb, I'm not talking about your little games with Robert Fischer, _please_ , that is so not interesting to me. Inception has been going on for years. You've done it. I've done it. Mr. Eames has done it. We do it all the time. We do it every time we share dreams, for goodness sakes. How can going into another person's mind _not_ change something in them?"

Arthur cleared his throat and took a sip of water to ease the dryness. How could she know so much? "Who are you?" he asked. "Can we at least get that out of the way? You said I knew you."

"Arthur, tell me about when you were nineteen. Where were you, what were you doing?"

"Why should I tell you anything about myself? You seem to already know."

"But you don't."

For just a moment, Arthur felt like he was experiencing dreamshare for the first time once again: sitting at an internet cafe and being asked by his superior how he had gotten there. _Don't panic, don't panic. She's fucking with you._ He reached into his pocket and gripped his totem.

"You're awake," she said. "Don't be upset. Just think, now. You were nineteen. At university, right? You hadn't served yet. It's in your documents."

He controlled his breathing, fought down a panic reaction whose source he couldn't find. Why did this line of questioning make him so upset? Frightened, even? 

"From December to March," she said. "Think, Arthur. Did you go home for Christmas? See your mother?"

He swallowed hard. "No. No, I never went to see her after I moved out."

"Well what _did_ you do?"

He didn't know. It was fourteen years ago, he should have been in school. Must have been. It was a long time, surely enough time to forget. No one remembered what they did fourteen years ago. Yet he could remember the summer before, he remembered the first day of the semester, and some of his professors. Their names, their faces. The classes. He thought forwards a little. Spring. Yes, he'd even gone to spring break in Daytona. Spent a week stoned out of his mind and fucking every girl that came onto him.

But the six months in between didn't seem to exist.

"You were with us, Arthur." She reached out her slender, pale hand toward his face. It seemed almost a motherly gesture, and so familiar that he didn't pull away from her. She ran her finger along his bottom lip. "Until you were stolen," she said softly. She gently pried his mouth open with her nail, and ran her thumb along the inside of his bottom lip. It felt like a dream, and so damned _familiar..._

Finally, Arthur slapped her hand away and stood up. His sudden movement knocked his chair out from under him, startling whoever was sitting behind him. Arthur didn't care. He just stared over Ann's head at Eames. 

Eames, who was staring back at him with such open hostility as Arthur had never seen from him before- at least he'd never seen it directed at him, not like this. Eames's shoulders were squared, his back straight as steel as he stood up, too. His eyes were focused, as they so often were, but cold and angry. He began to turn away.

It seemed to happen in slow motion. Arthur took a step toward him and stumbled over something, or maybe over nothing. Fear blossomed inside his chest like the fingers of frost, and his vision went hazy and white around the edges.

Ann's touch had not been an intimate or even friendly one, and certainly not a reminder of some shared past – at least not in its intent, and he understood that now. The edges of white ate away at everything else, he felt himself tipping over backwards, and he realized, no, nothing so subtle as a reminder. Just poison, on her rounded fingernail, that she had fed to him like milk to a baby.

He tried to reach towards Eames, who he could hardly see anymore. Eames, all the way across the car, turning away from him.

He heard a girl's voice calling, "Arthur, Arthur!" and then the ceiling came into view. He didn't feel his back hit the floor.

** ** ** **  
They grabbed Eames just as he was watching Arthur leave Dinclusin's room. Arthur looked frazzled, Eames started towards him, and then the two jacks were upon him. They flanked him, one putting a hand on his arm, the other reaching into his own jacket where he was so clearly carrying.

"Hey mate," Giles said. "Up for a game?"

Eames watched Arthur walk away, towards their own room, wanting nothing more than to follow. They had to talk about whatever Arthur had found that had unnerved him so much. Maybe Arthur had found the answer. Or maybe he had found nothing.

But Kenzie's hand inside his jacket, clearly itching to pull his piece, told him all he needed to know.

"I suppose I am up for a game, aren't I?" Eames said.

"I suppose you are," Giles said. He handed him a cigar.

"What sort of goodies have you laced this with?" Eames asked.

"You don't think very highly of your mates," Giles said, lighting it for him.

And from then on, the actual game—the one of pretending that he didn't know they were up to something—was over. All he could do from then on would just be to keep civilians safe, and keep himself and Arthur alive, until they could get off the train and settle this.

They went to the lounge, Giles in front of him, Kenzie behind. Eames didn't know why they chose that place, but he figured they must have had a reason. It was toward the back of the train.

The reason became clear about five minutes later, when Arthur came practically busting through the door, so obviously looking for him. He was a little breathless, a little pale, and bursting with information that he needed to tell.

Ann sidled up beside him and said something to him that made him decide to sit with her. He got it, then. Here, in the crowded lounge, where they were obviously at a disadvantage: These people knew enough to understand that neither he nor Arthur would open a firefight in here. 

The little girl and her mum and dad weren't far behind him. That kid, Eames thought, was going to get herself into a world of trouble.

Arthur seated himself facing Eames across the room, seeking eye contact. He glanced up, but didn't dare give him any signals.

"You play it casual, Mr. Eames," Giles said in his ear. "It's only fair to tell you that I don't give a fuck."

"Good to know," Eames said, just as casual as they wanted. He slapped some cards on the table. The cigar was bitter; he hadn't smoked in a while though usually he liked to have one or two while playing. Knowing that he was being made to more or less eat the poison they were feeding him made him want to gag it all back out. Just for a second, he considered plucking the cigar out of his mouth and shoving it into Giles's eye. 

"Our lovely lady has your boyo over there by the short hairs, Mr. Eames," Kenzie said. "So really, just be a nice young man and we will work this out, I promise."

"My ability to work things out," Eames said, "is one of my strong points, you'll find."

"Excellent." Kenzie checked his cell phone, glanced at Giles over the game of cards and said, "About two minutes, yeah?"

"Right," Kenzie said.

Two minutes for what, Eames didn't know, and did not look forward to finding out. He watched Arthur as Ann spoke to him. Saw him glance at him a few times, and his tells were like flares in the sky. Arthur needed to talk to him, and these guys had figured out that they were so much easier to deal with apart, with no plans.

"Time to go," Kenzie said, and clapped Eames on the back. "Ann's just going to slip your boy something lovely, whilst you come with us."

"He's not my boy," Eames said, the implication suddenly infuriating him. That Ann was about to hurt him in some way, or render him harmless, and on top of that, they thought that Arthur was his _boy_ , like some kind of rental. It filled him with rage. He stood slowly, wanting to tower over all of them and knock them down. He saw Ann reach her hand to Arthur's face, saw her actually put her fingers into his mouth, but Arthur was too busy staring at him to notice at first. 

Giles stuck the gun into his ribs and said, "Turn around and you won't have to see."

But Arthur was reaching for him, stumbling, still trying to get his balance even as his eyes rolled back. 

"I'm going to end you, before this is over," Eames told them. 

"Of course you are," Giles said.

He heard the crash of a chair, heard the sprog Michelle calling for Arthur, and his own head was spinning now as they forced him away, into the next car. Whatever they'd given to him was catching up, taking him down already.

He knew how bad it was; he knew they had some serious shit planned for him and that with Arthur out of the way, it was him against however many of the train's crew they had bought. 

Still. He was going to end them.

** ** ** **

Arthur opened his eyes to hazy light and shadow, and fuzzy, but frantic sounds. He struggled to come back to the present, clawed his way from darkness that wasn't from a dream. He knew he hadn't been asleep, because he always woke up completely aware. A man's voice spoke softly, closer than the rest of the sounds, and a bit clearer.

"...all right... Arthur...trying to help you..."

The entire world snapped into focus and Arthur tried to sit up. He was pressed back down by the shoulders, and a man's face loomed over his. It was Daniel, Michelle's dad.

"Give yourself a minute," he said. 

Arthur didn't have a choice, the room was still spinning. He lifted his head and glanced down. Helen, Michelle's mom, had his legs in her lap. Daniel had taken off Arthur's tie and loosened his collar.

Other passengers crowded him, and he felt exactly like he thought Michelle had felt when she'd collapsed at the church.

"Move back," Helen said, "for goodness sakes, give him some air."

"Eames," Arthur said, remembering how he'd cleared away the crowd this morning, then remembering him turning away, furious, flanked by the two Fenderlyn brothers.

"Relax a moment," Daniel said. He leaned close to Arthur's face on the pretense of checking his eyes. "I saw what happened," he said. "I told them you fainted but you didn't, I think she drugged you. I realize you are FBI and I didn't want to compromise your investigation."

"Thanks. How long was I out?" He touched his bottom lip. It burned. 

"About a minute, not long." Daniel frowned and tilted his head. "Open your mouth and say 'ah,'" he said.

Arthur did as he was asked.

"Whatever she gave you was caustic," Daniel said.

"Where did she go?" This time when he sat up, the doctor allowed him to, with a steadying hand on his back.

Helen put his legs down and scooted up. "I'd worry about myself first, in your position. We're on a moving train, she can't have gone far. You can arrest her when you're up to it."

"My partner," Arthur said. 

"Left with those two men," Daniel said. "He's probably putting handcuffs on them by now, I'd think."

Helen turned in the direction where they had disappeared. "Michelle?" she said. Her voice trembled a little.

Arthur remembered Michelle yelling his name as he fell. She had been in the car a minute ago. He scanned the room for her now; she was gone.

Helen stood up. No one else in the car knew that Ann had just poisoned him; no one else knew that Eames had left with two armed men. Helen understood at least part of this. She wrung her hands and turned frantically this way and that, looking at both doors of the car. "Where is she?" she asked, her eyes wide. "Michelle! Michelle!"

Arthur knew exactly where her nosy, intrusive, stupid, and stupidly brave kid was. She had probably followed Eames. He knew this because he had been fifteen once, and he had been nosy, intrusive, stupid, and stupidly brave too, and that was exactly what he would have done. He reached for his cell phone; it was the quickest way to find Eames, and subsequently, to locate Michelle. When he turned it on, though, he got no signal.

"Cell phone," he snapped. He got to his feet with a little help from Daniel. No one was paying attention to him anymore; he wasn't interesting now that he was on his feet. Their panic braced him, revived him. It cleared his mind.

"HEY!" he yelled. A few people turned to him. He reached to his pocket, fished out his wallet and flipped it open, brandishing it the way they did on TV shows. "SPECIAL AGENT. I NEED A CELL PHONE."

That got their attention. They all murmured, that same frantic, dull roar, carried on an undercurrent of cresting panic. About five hands shot toward him, each holding cell phones. He recognized a few faces but they didn't matter; they'd turned into one mass being for now. He checked the phones over. "Signal, I need one with a signal," he said. "Anyone. Is this a dead zone?"

"Mine's not working," a shrill voice said.

"I don't have any bars," said another. 

"No service," another murmured, "I guess we're not by any towers."

"No, I was just online."

"Shit! I don't have service!"

Their voices rose into a panic, one that Arthur wasn't certain that he could contain.

"Where is she?" Helen's voice cried above the others. " _Where's my Dollymop?_ "

** ** ** **

 

When Eames came back around, he was upright. Or semi-upright, at least, seeing as he was bound to a chair. The train was moving. It was intensely hot where he was, and a lot louder than anywhere else on the train. The room was mostly dark, lit only by intermittent blue and orange glow.

Tubes, pistons, LEDs, and the sound and smell of metal on metal all combined to tell him that he was in the engine room. And if they'd gotten him in there, then it was likely that the whole train staff was under these people's thumbs by now.

Eames had been bound to many chairs before, so he figured he'd eventually deal with it this time. He might come away from this with a scar or two, but this situation was nothing terribly new to him.

Except for the sound of crying that he heard, dimly at first, beneath the noise of the engines.

_Christ._

"Mr. Eames?" the girl asked. "Are you all right?"

He focused in the semi-dark, and spotted her on the floor. She was upright, but cuffed to a pipe. Her eyes looked huge and terrified.

"I'm fine," he said. "Are you hurt?"

She sniffed. "No. I'm sorry I got caught. Arthur was falling. I thought I should get you but then you were falling too and they grabbed you. They have guns. I tried to run back but they saw that I saw and then they grabbed me." She trailed off and sobbed quietly before collecting herself. "I'm sorry if I screwed up your operation. I was just trying to help."

"That's all right," he said. It wasn't all right, but she couldn't have known that they were going to nab her too. He wanted to tell her that she should have minded her fucking business, that Arthur could take care of himself, but... "Did they hurt Arthur?" he asked instead. "Did you see what happened? Did he get back up?"

"I dunno," she said. "He fell but my Dad was there. He can help, he's..."

"A doctor, I know, yes." He tested his bonds, because there was always a chance. They were secure, real metal handcuffs, old school. His ankles were cuffed, too. "How long have we been here?"

"Umm, it feels like about ten minutes."

"Did they say anything?"

"No. Yes. A little. They said I would be their insurance. What does that mean?"

His heart sank into his stomach, which tightened the knot further. He chose his words carefully. "It means that they will likely use you as a pawn to get me to tell them information."

She started to cry a little, again. It grated on his nerves but he reminded himself to be patient. She was a young girl in a hostage situation, such as she'd probably seen in countless television shows and movies, which rarely ended well. He didn't want to tell her that it was worse in real life. She probably already got that.

"Let's just wait and see what they want," he said.

"Mr. Eames, I saw something else. They were talking to the conductor, too. Does that mean that he's one of them?"

He thought again about how easy it had been for their crew to board the train armed, not only with guns, but apparently with all sorts of goodies such as fast-acting toxins. "Could be," he said.

"Are we screwed?"

He didn't answer her.

The door squealed open, letting in a moment of light and cool air. Two silhouettes appeared, and then the door closed. The jacks in this hand – jacks he could probably handle. One of them hit a switch, and fluorescents flickered to life, casting their bland, unnatural light and banishing the shadows and glow. Michelle shielded her eyes.

Eames blinked a few times as Giles and Kenzie approached him. He looked up at them mildly when they loomed over him.

"You don't need her," he told them. "Let the sprog go; I'll tell you whatever you need to know. I can be fair."

Kenzie chuckled. "Honestly, Mr Eames, you are not in a position to barter."

"I realize that," he said. "But you are in a position to listen to reason."

Giles unholstered his gun, held it by the barrel and swung the grip. It caught him on temple with a crack that probably sounded worse than it felt. Really, that had been a warning tap – it still made him have to blink away the stars blooming in his eyes, though.

"Stop it!" Michelle shrieked. "Stop hitting him, you shit!"

Eames shook his head clear and blinked up at the two of them. "Are you doing that to upset her?" he asked. "That's just sadistic. Why is she here?"

"Insurance," Giles said. "We know you're dangerous and unpredictable when cornered. That's not flattery, it's just the truth. But if there's a civilian in the way, you're a bit easier to control."

"That's utter bullshit," Eames said. "I'm a criminal. You should know I don't care about..."

They were laughing at him before he was even finished speaking. "Fucking _please_ ," Kenzie said. 

Then he crouched down beside Michelle and looked into her terrified face. "How old are you?" he asked.

_Don't do anything stupid,_ Eames thought, staring at her. He tried to get her attention, so that he could at least give her a shake of the head, a warning not to be a fucking idiot. 

She kicked Kenzie in the balls with the heel of her foot. It was a clumsy tap, she was in no position to give it any real strength and she was terrified and she might even have been aiming for his leg, but it was right to the balls and enough to topple him.

While Kenzie huffed and puffed and got to his knees again, Giles nearly fell over laughing. He kept laughing when Kenzie angrily crouched down again and grabbed Michelle by the hair.

"Hey!" Eames shouted, "get your fucking hands away from her." He couldn't help it; he knew it was futile but the sight of men putting their hands on scared little girls made him feel volcanic.

"You little pig," Kenzie said, "playing dirty like that." He pulled her head forward and then smacked it backwards into the pipe. 

Eames launched himself and the entire chair across the room. He didn't even know how he did it. One second he was seated, and the next, his thighs were burning like they were under a brand, and he was on his side and Kenzie was on the floor next to him, a tangle of limbs. Eames struggled for something to use, to throw, to hit with. All he had free was his head, which he bashed into the back of Kenzie's skull.

When Kenzie turned around to grab him, to tussle with him, Eames used the only other weapon he had. Kenzie grabbed for his jaw. Eames sank his teeth into the fleshy part of his thumb and held the fuck on.

Kenzie screamed, wailed, smacked and punched at him, trying to push him off.

Something grabbed him from behind—had to be Giles--and yanked the chair. He felt it skidding across the room, his entire body with it. He tried to flip the chair around (thinking vaguely that Arthur would probably be able to but he wasn't limber enough) but succeeded only in turning it on its back – with Giles pinned underneath it.

"Fucking piece of trash!" Eames yelled, Kenzie's blood flying from his lips, still hot. "Come on over here and try that shit on an adult, you fucker, I'll rip the arse off of you, fucking coward!" He felt rabid, unhinged. 

Giles succeeded in pushing the chair, and Eames, off of him. Eames's face met the floor of the engine room and he turned his face to the side, trying to get himself upright. He caught a glimpse of Michelle, her eyes burning bright in her pale face.

"You've done it, you've completely done it," he seethed. Hurting Arthur, hurting a little girl who had done nothing but be a stupid nosey parker tyke. "I'm going to end you, going to _end you._

The door opened again. Eames put a stop to his raving – he finally identified that that's exactly what it was – and stared.

The fluorescents lit Dinclusin without shadow. His vivid eyes still looked wide and wet, his mouth a downturned curve of disapproval. A line of what looked like concern creased his brow as he closed the door behind him. He looked very fair in the white lights, his hair so blond it was nearly silver.

"What is going on in here?" he asked. His voice was stern, and directed to the two brothers. "What have you done?"

"They got out of hand, Jackie," Giles said. "I knew Eames would, but that little brat is far too forward." 

"Good god," Dinclusin said. "What a mess."

Eames watched him approach, felt his back go rigid as some of the fight came back into him. Yet Dinclusin just kneeled beside him, unafraid, and turned the chair on its side.

"Darling," he said, "don't fight." Like a man handling a fractious dog, he reached his hand out slowly toward Eames's face. "Don't do anything rash. We need to talk. I'm not going to hurt you. You should know better. It breaks my heart that you don't know. That you'd think I could hurt you."

He breathed heavily, harshly, wanting to jerk his head away or make some kind of defensive move at the hand that was closing in on his space. To his own shock, he did neither. Dinclusin gently touched the side of his face, and with an even softer touch, slid his fingers over the spreading bruise from the butt of the gun. Then his slender, insistent fingers moved through his hair, caressing. 

Eames couldn't understand how this felt so familiar. How it felt so safe.

"I'm sorry about this," Dinclusin murmured. "I told them not to get rough. They don't listen. I don't want you to be hurt. I just want you to remember, darling. I don't care that you stole from us, I don't care that you ran, I don't even care about what you destroyed. I want it back, yes. I want you back."

"I don't know," Eames said, furious at his own stammering, not understanding why the words wouldn't come. "I don't know, I don't know what you want."

"Shh, I'll show you everything," Dinclusin said, his fingers moving ceaselessly. "I'll show it to you. You'll be fine." He made a motion with his hand, and Kenzie took something out from behind one of the engines.

"Mr. Eames?" Michelle's shaking voice called, somewhat breaking his calm. 

He shook his head, tried even to shake Jack's hand off, and looked at her. It was as if the world and everything in it came back.

"What is that?" she asked, looking at the case that Kenzie was handing to Jack. "Don't hurt him, I'll... I'll kick you again."

"Shush," Jack – no, not Jack, Dinclusin – said. It was directed either to the girl or to Eames, or maybe to both.

It was the PASIV that Jack was setting up, but there was no way for Eames to explain that to the kid. She would be afraid, when she saw. And the Fenderlyn brothers...

"Wait," Eames said, some semblance of coherence coming back to him. If Jack was telling the truth that he didn't want to hurt him to get this done—whatever _this_ may be—then he would appeal to that. "Wait, just... I'll go under with you. I'll do what you want, or try to remember... whatever you're talking about. Don't leave those two topside with the girl. They hurt her before."

"They won't again," Jack said, giving the other two a stern warning glance.

"It's not enough. Let her go."

"No, pet." Jack's voice was filled with regret. "Can't grant you that. But hang on."

He backed off for a moment and pulled a small two-way radio from his belt. He pressed the button and said, "Ann? Come in, would you?"

Why he didn't use a cell phone, Eames had no idea. But the door opened a few seconds later, and Ann Dromelius slunk into the room, closing the door behind her.

"It's all taken care of," she said.

"Meaning what?" Eames said, feeling the fullness of anger again. "Meaning Arthur? If you want my cooperation you're going to have to..."

"No no no," Jack soothed, knowing better than to try to get handsy with him again, when he was like this. "There is no 'have to', not just now. Don't worry about Arthur, all right? Put him out of your mind for now. It's you and me. And a chaperone, so those two will keep to themselves."

"I'm supposed to trust her?" Eames said.

Jack reached for the PASIV device and pulled the wires free. "I'm afraid you must, darling. Not much else I can offer you."

"Bastard, you, I'm going to, you fucking..."

"Hush," Jack said as he slipped the cannula into first Eames's wrist, and then one into his own. "Just come down with me. We'll sort this out."

_I'll drop you into limbo,_ Eames thought; _I know how to do it and I'm free in my mind._

But then Jack pressed the button, and Eames forgot all about his notions of freedom.

** ** ** **

Chapter 8 - "...Don't Let Him Get Control..."

 

Now the passengers were really panicking, and Arthur saw how this could so easily spiral out of his control. Helen was frantic, about to tear out of the car to search for her daughter alone. Her husband Daniel was at the other and of the car, shouting for Michelle. Everyone else had caught on that this was no ordinary cell phone outage or dead zone. Arthur heard the word "terrorists" in frightened whispers from a few people. 

The old couple, the one with matching outfits, sat huddled at a table, holding hands and waiting it out. They looked calm, as if they'd seen worse together. Even in the mess of humanity, and even in his own rush to find Eames, he stopped to take a closer look at them. Finally he saw her flaming red hair for what it was: a wig. Yes, they had been through worse than this.

And so had he. The old couple's resolve gave him back some of his. He was about to order them all into silence and ask for their cooperation, when the train shifted suddenly. The wheels beneath them squealed against the rails, and the train lurched back so hard that glasses, cards and even a few chairs tumbled forward. Arthur nearly fell, but steadied himself on a nearby table. A few passengers screamed. Helen was thrown face first into the door she was about to open. The old, matching couple pressed their foreheads together.

The train came to a complete stop, and everyone went quiet.

"Everyone keep calm," Arthur said.

"And carry on?" Daniel asked, a tremor in his voice. Still, he offered Arthur a small smile that said, _I'm with you._

"Let's not carry on just yet," Arthur said, smiling back. He seemed to have everyone's attention. The ID he'd flashed probably had something to do with it. He had an idea of what he looked like, which was probably more of a tragic mess than an in-control agent, but he could do the 'authority' voice and stance when he had to. 

"What's going on?" a woman yelled at him. 

Arthur turned to see the fur-clad woman from earlier in the day, the one he and Eames had made up stories about. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "I don't know who's behind this or what they want. I want to keep everyone safe but I'll need your cooperation."

"Well where's the train staff?" a man shouted. "The conductor? Can't they radio for help, or have they been killed?"

This question sent a murmur throughout the car. The idea that the train had been hijacked, and the people in control had been killed, seemed to settle into the occupants. Hysteria threatened. The train had been hijacked, that much was clear, but he wanted to avoid that word at all costs.

"I don't know," Arthur said. "The truth is I'm on vacation just like the rest of you and I am not aware of the situation. But if we all stay calm and not allow hysteria to run this train, we can stay alive. It's important to remember that we're on the ground, we're not on an airplane or in the middle of the sea. It looks like we might outnumber the people who... who took over this train, but I _do not_ want anyone to do anything rash. Numbers don't mean a thing if they're armed and you're not. Okay? So keep your heads together and if I tell you to get down on and take cover, do it. If they decide to open fire, then we can..."

The door behind him burst open and one of the many uniformed men of the train staff came through. The passengers all fell into a hush, making it clear that they knew what was going on and the charade was over. Arthur saw that he was armed.

Dinclusin must have replaced the actual staff with his own goons, or threatened them with something. Or he had a hostage that Arthur didn't know about. The reasons didn't matter. He wasn't willing to risk casualties. He knew Eames wouldn't either.

He forced the uniformed man to look at him, and held his eyes severely for a second, showing his intention to face up to him. He also held up his hands as he approached. He wanted to project confidence but not recklessness.

"What do you want?" Arthur asked the man. "We can work this out." He leaned in a little closer and found that he wasn't wearing a name tag. That wasn't good; he wouldn't be able to personalize the conversation by using the man's name. He'd have to offer something up. "I'm gonna put down my gun," he said, moving slowly, reaching into his jacket with one hand, the other still held up.

"Never relinquish your weapon," someone admonished him from the back of the train. He ignored them, because in this case, with the lives of the entire train on his shoulders, he didn't see any other choice.

The goon just watched him closely, his eyes narrowed. Arthur took a good look while he was disarming himself. The guy's suit was ill-fitted and the cap was too small for his massive, square head. They weren't his clothes. So they must have taken away the real rail-workers and replaced them with their own people. He hadn't seen this guy before, so it had probably happened this morning. He wondered where the real staff was being held, if they were still alive.

He put his gun on the small table beside him, hyper-aware that anyone could grab it, and hoping that no one would be so stupid.

"I'm Arthur," he said to the block of a man in the too-small clothes. "I think it's me that you want, right?"

"I know who you are," the man said, in a British accent. "Pretending to be FBI this time? And what's Eames, British intelligence? These people bought this from you two?"

"I can show you my ID," Arthur said. Sweat gathered at the back of his neck. If this was their plan – to turn the tables and make him and Eames the bad guys – it could go very badly, very quickly. He would just have to play it as innocent as he could. He didn't think he'd lost his touch at doing the "good guy" thing.

"The ID that your partner forged for you," the guy said. "Come closer, Arthur."

"Who's in charge of you?" he asked. "I'll give you what you want if you'll let these people off the train but I need to talk to Ann or Dinclusin first."

The goon laughed, showing big, white teeth. "Let them out? Do you have any idea where we are? You'd throw these innocent people out into the middle of a Siberian snowstorm, nothing for miles but white-out and mountains? Come here, Arthur. Jack told me to break your arm, said it would keep you quiet but he wants you alive."

Someone gasped at that, maybe Helen, probably thinking of what her kid was going through if they were this cavalier about violence. He wasn't too worried about himself, because once he got within range, this guy wasn't going to be doing any arm-breaking. Arthur sized him up. He was pretty big. Big usually meant slow. Not always, as in Eames's case, but often.

He looked over his shoulder at the rest of the passengers. The old matching couple still had their heads bowed, unable to look. Helen had both hands over her mouth, her face streaked with tears. A few others were watching, almost rapt, as if this was a particularly nasty part of a movie that they might have to shut their eyes for. He hoped that they did. He gave them all a quick look: _Don't do anything stupid._

"Okay," Arthur said to the guy, turning back. "Okay, if - if you have to."

Then he launched himself at the goon, because fuck honor and honesty, was Arthur's philosophy, and it had always served him well. He got his knee into the guy's crotch and bloodied his fist trying to punch him in the throat but getting his teeth instead. A huge, hot hand gripped around Arthur's throat. He twisted out of the way to avoid being head-butted. He landed on his side and fumbled for the gun on the man's hip, but took an elbow to the solar plexus and for a second he couldn't breathe, could only gasp and see flashing lights. He managed to roll out of the way of another descending fist, when the unmistakable sound of gunfire put a stop to all movement. A few people screamed.

"Don't move!" a man's voice said, and damned if Arthur wasn't sure that it was his own Glock that had been discharged. 

He froze and looked up. Daniel, obviously as stupid and stupidly brave as his brat of a daughter, was holding the Glock.

"Don't move or I'll shoot. You," he said, indicating the guy on the ground beside Arthur. "You just go on and put your weapon down. Nice and slow." He sounded like he was reciting lines from a script. 

Arthur wasn't the only one to notice this. The goon just laughed at him and started to get up. Arthur turned sideways and kicked him just below the knee. He heard the somewhat familiar snapping sound and knew he'd gotten the right spot to break the medial ligament. It satisfied him.

While the guy was busy rolling around holding his knee, Arthur got his gun off him and stood up, catching his breath.

Everyone was too afraid to give him a hand, and Daniel stood there holding Arthur's Glock out to him like it was a scorpion and he didn't know how it had gotten into his hand.

"Thank you," Arthur said. "I did say not to do anything stupid, but, yeah. Thanks. He probably would have pinned me if you hadn't done it."

"I don't really know what I did," Daniel said. He was shaking all over. "I just thought of Michelle when he said... I have to find my daughter. Arthur, please, _please_ help us, don't let them have hurt her."

As if Arthur could go back in time and undo whatever they'd already done. "We'll find her," he said.

He crouched down and whipped the writhing man's too-tight belt from his waist, intending to use it to lash his hands together until he could get something more secure.

"Everyone, hear me out," he said as he did this. His voice was already hoarse from the man's hand having been around his throat, but he tried to talk above the din anyway. "Someone will have heard that shot, we don't have a lot of time. We have two guns, but they have more. We're going to move to the next car and the next one after that until we've got most people rounded up. I'll take point – that means I'll go first and clear the path, okay?" He turned the goon over onto his stomach and jerked his hands behind his back.

The man grunted, but followed it up with a laugh. "None of this means anything," he said.

Arthur didn't know what he meant. He turned to look at Daniel. "But I'll need someone to watch my six. Do you know what I mean?"

"Stand in the back," Daniel said. "Behind you, yes."

Arthur spared him a tight smile. "Did you serve?"

"God no." He laughed. "I just read a lot."

_Well, fuck,_ Arthur thought. It had been a long time since he'd had to take point for a group of this size – in fact, maybe never. There were at least twenty five people in this car, and more down the line. At least he had a few of them willing to help, though.

They never got to even try. The farthest door opened, and the first to come back in was Ann. A few passengers regarded her cool entrance warily, but most of them had no idea who she was. Helen did, though.

"Where is my daughter?" she asked. "I'll _kill_ you if anyone's hurt her. I know you think I can't. But..."

Michelle came in behind her, her eyes wide, shocked, and obviously adjusting to light again. She had been somewhere dark. Arthur tried to think of where that might be. Could have just been a darkened compartment.

Michelle fell crying into her mother's embrace, and Daniel forgot all about watching his six and firing Glocks and all of that, and just ran to collect them both into his arms. Arthur would be happy if he'd seen the last of their involvement, now that the kid was safe.

Ann locked him with her eyes from across the room. The rest of the passengers went totally quiet and parted to let her pass. Arthur held onto the gun he'd lifted as she approached him. He wasn't going to back down. Clearly, neither was she.

Finally she stood about two feet in front of him. She glanced down at the man on the floor, and back up to Arthur with amusement in her eyes.

"Arthur, _really_ ," she said. "Why are you so unnecessarily violent?"

"You poisoned me and then had this dumb mug wave a gun in my face and you ordered him to break my arm, so don't try to feed me that line of bullshit. I'll probably shoot you next."

"You hurt me _so badly_ when you say things like that," she said.

And the hell of it was, she wasn't even playing a game. Arthur saw genuine pain in her face and for a moment she looked near tears.

"I don't even know you," he said.

"No, and it's such a shame. Let's have your _partner_ tell you everything." The venom in her voice was unmistakable.

She stood aside, out of his line of vision. At the other end of the car, staring at him like he'd lost his way, was Eames. A small trickle of blood ran down from his temple. Arthur started towards him, but stopped when he saw Dinclusin behind him. He took a second to sort it out. Maybe Dinclusin had a gun jammed into Eames's back that Arthur couldn't see. He should take it slow.

_Tears,_ , honest to god tears were tracking down Eames's face and that wasn't a gun that Dinclusin had to his back, it was just his hand, moving in slow, soothing strokes. Dinclusin wasn't looking at Eames, though. He was looking at Arthur, over his shoulder. The way he was touching Eames was proprietary, and Eames was allowing this, not flinching from it as he, too, stared at Arthur.

It took him a moment to place the look in his eyes, because he'd rarely, if ever, seen it there: _Guilt._

He went cold inside. It started in his chest and bloomed over his arms and legs until his fingertips felt like ice. His head felt swimmy and unreal. He didn't know what had happened, but something had changed. He'd known Eames for years, they'd been working partners for more than half that time, and it had taken just as long for them to build up trust that wasn't fragile, a safe business where no questions needed to be asked. It took too much time and energy to work with people you couldn't trust with your life and your secrets. They'd figured it out, and working like that had made them the best, almost untouchable as a team.

And in one second, with that naked look in Eames's eyes and Dinclusin's hand on his back, it was gone.

"Eames," Arthur said, aware of how ridiculously soft his voice had gone. Peripherally aware of the fact that this was a spectacle and that it wasn't obvious only to him, either.

"He's with them, he's one of them," someone murmured. Arthur didn't know who. "What is going on," asked another and "this has nothing to do with us!" a different voice called out.

"It doesn't," Arthur answered. He felt dazed, but tried to bring himself to attention. Finally he took a look around. At Ann, at Dinclusin, at the passengers. "It really doesn't. These people have nothing to do with it. Start the train, get to the next stop, let them go." He turned to Ann, appealing to the hurt he'd seen in her eyes before. "I promise, I _promise_ , I'll go with you. You have my word, you have..."

"Shush," she said. "We're not going to hurt them, I know you're going to comply, no one needs to get hurt." 

"I know you're confused, Arthur," Dinclusin said from across the car. "I needed a few minutes with Mr. Eames. He understands everything. Now I need you to understand. I need you to go with him, to work this out together. You can have until morning to talk. Alone." He patted Eames on the shoulder and said, "All right?"

"Yeah," Eames said. He swallowed hard and nodded. "Yeah, all right. Good." He sounded nothing like himself. Dinclusin gave him a gentle nudge forward. He stumbled a little and caught his balance.

_He's drugged, that's it,_ Arthur thought. _Obviously they hurt him and he's sick, he needs – it's whatever was wrong with him this morning, it's nothing like what you're thinking, he didn't, he_ couldn't _, he didn't..._

"Keep in mind," Dinclusin said, addressing the rest of the passengers, "that the train is still under my control, and that you are in the middle of nowhere. If you try to run, you'll probably freeze before you even reach the mountains. No one will know this until tomorrow morning when the train is late. We'll be gone by then. I suggest everyone just go back to your own business and you'll all be fine. All right? No need for anyone else to get hurt."

"Don't listen to him!" Michelle called out suddenly. She pulled away from her parents. Her face was wet with weeping, her cheeks blotchy and red. 

"Michelle, don't," Helen warned, trying to pull her back.

"Arthur, don't listen to this guy! You guys, he's _bad_ , he did something in there, he hurt Mr. Eames and he'll hurt you too, don't..."

Eames turned to her, his eyes cool and quiet. "Stop. Keep out of this. Stay with your parents and mind your business. No need for anyone else to get hurt."

The fact that he had repeated Dinclusin's words exactly sat like hot lead in Arthur's chest. Michelle promptly shut her mouth, but her face showed surprise, and utter dismay, as if she'd been betrayed. It was the kind of nakedly honest shock that Arthur hadn't felt in years. He was starting to understand it again, but damned if he would show that. And definitely not in front of Dinclusin. 

Eames didn't say a word to him when he was within reach. He didn't even look at him. He brushed past Arthur, barely touching, as he went to the closest door that led back to their compartment. He didn't look back to see if Arthur was following.

Helplessly, and shivering all over with panic, Arthur did.

** ** ** **

Dinclusin's dream had been made up of a darkness that Eames could not navigate. Something had sucked him toward the center of it, actually pulled at his mind, a blackness deeper than anything. He had fought for control with everything he had, wondering if this was what Arthur had seen that had unnerved him so badly. It had to have been.

"Don't fight," Dinclusin's voice had said. "You'll hurt yourself, believe me. Migraines for days. Go with it. You'll remember."

In the end, he hadn't had a choice. It was too strong, too dark, too _much_ and it had dragged him down.

Eames opened his eyes to a sunlit park. The air was cold, brittle, but there was no snow on the ground. The park was surrounded by sprawling, brick buildings with glass doors. He was shaking all over, his back and neck hurt even in the dream, as if he'd been bent into unnatural shapes to get here. This was like no dream he'd ever seen. He'd worked with the best, the most intense, even the craziest. He'd worked with _Cobb_. And he'd never seen or felt any dream as insistent as this one. 

"Breathe," Dinclusin said, suddenly standing beside him. "I took you down another level without a dream PASIV, that's all. It's easy when you get used to it. You'll remember how to do it again, I think."

Eames turned to face him. The air was crisp, it smelled like winter, and every color seemed over-saturated. Jack's hair gleamed like the sun, his eyes a shade bluer than the sky. He was smiling, unthreatening. He looked about ten years younger, too. 

"Fourteen, actually," Jack said. "Do you remember the place?" 

"No." It alarmed him that he was being read so easily. This had never happened to him. Eames was the one who read people, not the other way around.

"You didn't even stop to think."

"Then just tell me," Eames said. "Stop fucking around."

"You won't believe me if I just tell you. You have to see it in your mind, as is normally the case with memories. Right? If I tell you something happened and you can't imagine it in your past, that means nothing. But if you can access it as a part of your history, if you can see it, hear it, smell it, and relive it, then you know it really happened."

"That's not true," Eames said. "And every dreamer knows it. Dreams feel real when we're in them. Doesn't mean they happened in real life."

"No?" 

Eames reached into his pocket for his totem. The ridges of it, the correctly spelled letters, assured him it was a dream.

"Right, then," Jack said. "We're two levels down in my mind, but I'm going to let you fill in the details, which you will, once it starts to come back." He tried to take Eames's hand. Eames pulled away. "All right," Jack said. "Not yet."

"Not ever. You're psychotic."

Jack gave him a look so honestly hurt that he had to look away.

"Fine. You're twenty three, this year. You're in the service, but this winter, we're in America on a project."

"I didn't come to America until..."

"Darling," Jack interrupted, "all of your papers are forged, so there is no physical evidence of this. You should know that. You were in America that winter, and you spent some time at this university, and in New York City." He gestured around him, to the expanse of dead grass in a field, and brick university buildings. "You were in the military's the dreamshare program."

He wanted to tell Jack that this was bullshit, that he hadn't learned dreamshare until the following year. But he didn't bother.

"The general sent us over, with the name Project Voodoo. We didn't know exactly what we were getting into, but the idea was to find the best of the best, to make a dreamsoldier. Someone who could dreamwalk like none other. This would take a lot of time, a lot of work. A lot of inception and erasure. Because the project was to start with a clean slate, you see. Inception was just a word back then, of course, but there was evidence that every dreamshare was its own inception. It was very easy to target people with dream disorders. Still is. So the general sought out people who were bright, who showed potential and imagination. And those who already had sleep disorders were chosen first, for two reasons: first, the ease of which one could plant ideas in their minds, and second, because they had no idea what was going on. They just thought they were part of an experimental treatment; they didn't know they were being tested."

A creeping dread began to worm its way through Eames's heart. He looked around the college campus that existed somewhere in the USA fourteen years ago, during a time that he had lost from his memory. _Erasure_ , Jack had said.

"Come down another level," Jack said. "Just to save time. And you'll remember more clearly down there. Because nothing is ever truly erased, is it?"

"I don't think that's a good idea," Eames said.

Jack put his hand on Eames's arm. "I'm sorry. I've got to take you anyway."

That awful, pulling, sucking feeling came again at his center. He tried only briefly to fight it this time.

When they went into the next level, he was in a small, neat, and spare apartment. One tiny window was the only link to the outside, and heavy blinds were pulled down over it, covered by a black drape. It was chilly here, too. A bulky, unwieldy black case dominated the center of the room, about the size of a sofa cushion. Around it, and connected to it by clear, thick tubes, lay Ann, Jack, and the two Fenderlyn brothers. 

"The earliest PASIV" Jack said, at his side once again. "Remember it?"

"Yes," Eames said, before he was even aware that he'd spoken. And then, "New York City. January."

"Yes!" Jack's voice was bright and pleased.

"There was a … You had found someone. Ann had found him, someone from the sleep program who could... what could he do?"

"He could create structures," Jack said. "Impossible ones; he built them out of dream logic. And physics, he was very, very good with dream physics. We couldn't take him here, of course, to our little headquarters. Ann wanted to, but he could not know what we were trying to do so, we only visited him at the false clinic. He was very sharp, good at details. Ann had her mind set on him. I thought..."

"That he lacked imagination," Eames finished for him. "Yes. You said that."

"But she would not be deterred. His dreaming was very powerful, but of course, his other problems so often got in the way. His past."

"Oh, Christ," Eames said. His heart felt like it was made of melting lead. "Why don't I remember seeing him? You erased him from me?"

"No, not I. Project Voodoo did. You found him forgettable anyway. And he only knew you in dreams. And even then, Luke, he _never knew you._ Because you had a gift, too; a rare one, the likes of which Project Voodoo had never seen before. You could forge, darling. The power to do this was invaluable to the general, when it came to getting people to give things up. The ability to become anyone, and say anything it would take to make another person give you their secrets. That gift belonged to you."

Eames ran his hand across his mouth. On the floor, the dreamers stirred. The sedatives hadn't been that strong back then, they'd been flawed, as had been the method of delivery. "What did I do to him?"

"Obviously, Ann's prodigy did not work out," Jack said. "Mine did, though." He turned to Eames, the look in his eyes soft, and full of affection. "You were so special. You still are. They tried to make me forget. And I did, Luke, for years I did, Ann and I both, and Giles and Kenzie. It started to come back a few years ago, those lost four months, Project Voodoo. I don't know that it was meant to, but it did."

" _What did I do to him?_ " Eames repeated.

"One more level," Jack said. "Just one. I'll tell you down there. Let me finish the story."

"No. Tell me now, here, and let me go, let me see if I can stop this – if I can reverse whatever I did. If I can fix this."

"I won't allow it," Jack said. "I'm sorry. Come down with me. I'll show you what you have been afraid to look at."

He fought it hard this time, the drag on his consciousness, even though Jack had warned him not to. It hurt everything in him, his dream-self felt wracked with pain, his mind was burning.

Jack dragged him under anyway.

This time when he opened his eyes, he was in a bed, in a darkened room, trying to catch his breath, trying to thrash himself free from the pain. He couldn't make out the details of the place but he knew that he was in a room in the apartment in New York.

"Shh," Jack said. "Just a nightmare, pet. I'm here." He wrapped his arms around him and soothed him like a child.

_No_ , Eames thought, allowing himself to be touched like that, just for a moment. _Not a child. A lover._ It felt familiar, and so easy. He could let it go on. It was something he knew. Something he had once wanted.

"Don't touch me," he gasped, and wrenched himself away.

"You're twenty three," Jack said. He curled his hand around Eames's wrist and held fast. "It's almost spring, and the boy from university is not going according to plan. He can't let go of his past. He's too willful, and worse, he's figuring dreamshare out on his own. He's a danger to the project because he knows things he's not supposed to know. Look."

The darkness of the room gave way to what looked like a cross between a clinic and a hospital. This, he knew as if it had happened yesterday, was the false "dream center" that the project had set up for its "clients." Its unknowing potential recruits.

Ann, young but tired looking and haggard, sat on a small cot, alone. She wore white, loose clothing and was supposed to be one of the patients there. Her head jerked up when she heard screaming from down the hall. She jumped to her feet, wringing her hands together, and waited.

Three men came through the door, two of them struggling against the one in the center. He was young, no more than a college boy with soft, curling hair, endless scrawny limbs, and determined eyes as he fought against the two men restraining him. He screamed obscenities, threw punches and kicks with an accuracy that looked out of place on his small frame. 

Ann went to him and tried to still his thrashing, laying her hands on his face and telling him to shush, shush.

"You're a part of this!" he screamed at her. "You lied to me, you're one of them! You made me think I was crazy!"

"No," she said, stroking his face, "no, petit, I would never."

"Don't fucking lie to me!" He finally pulled himself out of the grip of the two men who were holding him back. Instantly he pulled his shoulders in and crossed his arms over his chest, ducking his head. "What kind of grift is this, this isn't a sleep disorder clinic for fuck's sake. _Tell me what's going on._ " He caught his breath and looked to Ann, appealing to her. "Please. Just tell me what you're doing."

She threw her arms around his narrow shoulders. He didn't return the embrace. She spoke anyway, into his ear. "Je suis tellement desole, mon favori bein-aime. Je vous choissisez."

"I know you chose me," he said. "I want to know why, for what?"

She looked up at him, tearful, shaking her head. "I can't tell you. Je suis desole. Just sleep." She ran her finger along his bottom lip. "Please, one more time, sleep for me. I have to let you go. Je dois te laisser partir. I must let you go."

He swayed in her arms. "Let me go? Oh my god, you-you bitch, you _bitch._ " His voice faded and his eyes rolled back.

She tried to hold him up as he fell, but she was too small. She glared at the two men in the room. "Giles, you shit, come over here and help me!" she barked. "Kenzie, move your useless arse!"

Reluctantly, the two men came to help her catch him. They moved him onto the bed while a third man came into the room. It was Jack. He pulled the early PASIV device along on a cart behind him.

Eames looked to the Jack standing beside him, repulsed.

"Watch," Jack beside him said. "Just keep watching."

Eames looked back to the scene in the clinic. When he saw himself walk into the room, casually adjusting his shirtsleeves and not even glancing at the boy on the bed, he wanted to fight and thrash like the boy had been doing. Instead, he just watched, rapt, afraid of what he was going to see. Afraid because he knew.

"Come along, darling," Jack-of-old told him. "Here is where you shine."

"Don't see why," Eames—or Luke, as he was back then—said. "General says this is over, wants him disappeared. Why can't he just be rubbed out like the others? We've been trying to incept him for months to be this dream-hyper-soldier and nothing has worked. All of our inceptions in him have failed. He's too stubborn, he has no imagination and he is not meant for this work. On top of this, he knows too much. This is a waste of time and resources." He stopped, and walked over to the bed where the young man slept, still looking worried and angry in his sleep. "Hm," he said. "I never much looked at him before. Looks like a nice boy, really. Shame." He ran his fingers along the angle of his jaw, over the lips that Ann had touched to put him to sleep. It was an intrusive gesture, too insistent. He looked up at Ann, grinning. "Maybe I'll steal him from you instead."

"You just try," she said, bitterly daring. "I'll break both of your hands and you'll never steal again."

"Now, now." Jack sat down beside him on the bed and kissed him, casually intimate and lingering, on the mouth. "Ann called in a favor," he murmured. "He needs his memory erased. It has to take, or they will eliminate him." Jack leaned very close and whispered in his ear. "Were it up to me, I'd put him down myself. I don't like or trust him. And I'd sooner cut his throat before I let him run off with you. But Ann is fond, you see." He nipped along his jaw, trailed small kisses up to his mouth.

This Eames, this young, careless man, kissed him back freely until Ann said, "Enough."

Jack sighed. "Right, then. If we're doing this, we need to use his own powerful emotions to get him to forget, to go back to his life before the dreamshare. We need a total reset on his mind. We've got to pull out all the stops. It will fuck him up for life, Ann," he warned. "Might be better for him to just..."

"Go fuck yourself," Ann said. 

Eames/Luke laughed at this. Jack slipped an arm around his waist.

Eames's watching dream-self turned to Jack's watching dream-self and gripped him by the collars. "What did I do to him?" he asked through clenched teeth. "Who did I forge?"

Jack held his arms, firm but gentle, and stroked the insides of his wrists. "There was a girl."

Eames felt like someone had punched him in the chest. All of his breath left him and he held onto Jack's shirt convulsively. 

"He'd gotten into some trouble in school, you see," Jack went on. "You didn't know his story, but there was a girl, a little blonde he thought he loved. Of course she was a few years dead at the time, but when he was in school, he..."

"I know," Eames said. "I know, I know, fuck."

He had hurt Arthur. He'd used his past against him in order to try to change him into something else, and then had used it again to make him forget. Arthur had told him of hysteria-inducing night terrors he'd had through college, until Dom and Mal had come along to teach him to control them. His disorder hadn't been so unmanageable before they'd fucked with him. He'd mostly lived a normal life, nightmares notwithstanding, and he certainly hadn't suffered as badly as he'd done after they'd been inside his head for four months. 

_He'd_ done it. He'd gone into this stranger's head, a college boy with his heart already broken. He'd done it under the orders of his own corrupt legion and he'd damaged Arthur for years, _years_ , so cavalier inside his mind, careless, wishing to be done with him the whole time.

How could he blame Jack, for having done the same thing? And how could he blame Ann, who had tried to save Arthur when everyone else had been willing to throw him away?

"There's more to this story," Jack said, holding onto his wrists, still stroking with his thumbs. "We were all following orders. We were all made to forget. No one could have guessed that you would come back later and find Arthur again. None of us could have known that he _would_ be the dreamwalker that Project Voodoo had tried to build, and that when he was finally worthy, you would come back to steal him."

"I didn't," Eames said. "Arthur chooses to be... he chose to be with me. And anyway, the Cobbs..."

"The Cobbs trained a brilliant dreamer, and Arthur gave them his loyalty. Ann perceives that you took Arthur from her. As you said you would."

"That's insane, I could never..."

"Come down one more level. There's something else I need to show you."

Eames wanted to tell him no, he was done, he'd seen enough of himself tossing Arthur's mind around like an old toy. But he knew better than to fight it this time.

He went easily and the drag down hurt less, maybe not at all. He floated down, and as he let go of the will to fight, he seemed to let go of the rest of his will, too. The feeling of surrender was overwhelming, and something of a relief.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself lying on his side in a green field, drenched with sun. Spring, now, nearly summer, and back in England. Jack was curled around him, kissing the back of his neck. Eames tried to pull away, but his efforts were half-hearted. 

"I lost you after this," Jack said. "And forgot you as you forgot me. Project Voodoo disbanded and Ann and I were separated for four years. They didn't allow me to see my own sister. We were stationed in different parts of the world with no contact until they were sure it had been erased. But you can't erase everything, can you? And when we found each other again, little bits and pieces started to come back."

Eames turned to face him, feeling exhausted, too tired to move away. Everything hurt. His chest hurt, his head, his bones. "It's the past. It's long gone and doesn't even matter anymore. Tell me what I can do to make you give me my hands back, and I'll do it. Let this train go and we go our separate ways and that's it."

"That's hardly it," Jack said. He ran his hand over Eames's hair, down his jaw, his neck. "I could care less about what you stole or didn't steal. That's Ann's thing. I've hated Arthur since finding out what he did to you."

"It's too bad you-- What?" Eames looked at him, cautious and ready to disbelieve him. "Arthur did nothing to me. I'm the one who hurt him."

"I told you there was more to the story. One more piece that you need to know." Jack pulled him close. He didn't seem to expect a struggle anymore. "I told you our memories started to come back once Ann and I were together again. I remembered your name, your real name, and I did some research on who you might have become. You were a ghost to me, someone I knew I'd known, but couldn't remember how. You were what kept me searching. I found a lot about your past. Something you should know about. SomniCore took you about two years later, when you started dreamsharing on your own."

He thought back. This, he remembered clearly. His blood chilled and his mouth went dry – yes, this he would never forget. He'd been in rotten situations in his early days, even as a young kid he'd gotten himself in trouble, beaten, hurt, locked up. He'd thought himself quite a hard man, someone who'd seen enough shit that he couldn't be broken.

His two weeks at SomniCore had banished all of his bravado. 

"They hurt you quite badly," Jack said, still petting him. "They went into your head, they drugged you and kept you under, I believe they let you starve for a time. I know they kept you alone in a room with strobe lights for a day or two."

"Long since past," Eames said. "If anyone were to do that now, I'd shake it off."

"Yes, _now_. You're a different man now. But then, they hurt you."

"I don't want to know," Eames said. But he already knew what Jack was going to say and the thought made him shiver. "I don't care." But he did.

"Who set you up for capture, back then?" Jack said. "Who was SomniCore's prodigy, who tracked you for years? Broke into your files, hacked your life, got you _caught_ and sent you to be tortured?"

"It doesn't matter." His eyes were wet and his chest felt tight. It was worse, really, than the memory of the capture itself.

"Arthur handed you to them."

"He didn't know me."

"He set you up for weeks of pain and months of flashbacks and nightmares."

"He didn't know..."

"Oh, pet," Jack said. "You see, you've betrayed each other. It probably wasn't the last time, either. Was it? Trust is so fragile. One slip and it's gone forever, especially where lives and sanity are at stake."

Eames pulled away from him and sat up. The idea of what was happening here began to dawn on him. He licked his lips before speaking. "What are you doing to me?"

"I'm telling you how it is. That I never betrayed you, ever. That you never betrayed me. Not the way you and Arthur did to each other."

Panic clawed at him. He'd gone under so easily, he'd just handed himself over... "How many levels down are we?" 

Jack smiled. "Depth's got nothing to do with it, darling. It's a simple idea, based in emotion. That's all it takes. Your trust is broken."

It wasn't exactly fear that Eames felt. It wasn't anger or hurt or betrayal. It was simply grief for what he knew he'd just lost.


	5. Chapter 5

9 - Might Rain Fire..."

 

Eames was a mess, and when Arthur tried to put his hands on him, finally alone together in their room, Eames shoved him away and sat heavily on the bottom bunk. He dropped his head into his hands.

"Care to explain to me what the fuck is going on?" Arthur asked. Because anger was better than fear; it was easier. It also came on stronger, changed the shivering into more manageable shaking, and overall just felt better. It made him strong instead of weak. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he knew it could get out of control. But he let it go on. "Because I swear, Eames, I don't know what I'm seeing here."

When Eames looked up at him, with that sickening mix of guilt and hurt in his eyes, Arthur felt all of his bravado drain out. He didn't know how to deal with shit like this. He made it a point not to work with this kind of drama, ever. Well, not since Cobb anyway, and back then he had overlooked much of that bullshit, for Mal, for the kids and for everything the Cobbs had done for him. He and Eames had been solid for so long, this was a new landscape for him. He didn't know what to do with it.

"Just tell me," he said. His voice sounded small, not nearly as angry as he'd meant for it to. He fought to hang onto his irritation, to the anger. He clung to it like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood. 

Eames just stared up at him with red-rimmed eyes. 

Arthur felt like he was in the room with a stranger. "He drugged you. How bad is it?"

"Yes," Eames said, finally. He didn't sound sluggish or drugged, though. "Yes, they did at first, but the effects have worn off."

"Then..."

"Come here to me, Arthur." 

For the first time in many years, Arthur pulled back from that focused gaze – and he did so out of primal mistrust. Strangers were unpredictable. He didn't know how to act, how to respond; he couldn't read this person or glean his intentions. He glanced to Eames's hip for a weapon and didn't see one.

"Please," Eames said. This time he held out his hand, palm up. 

_This is fucking ridiculous_ , Arthur thought, and took the two strides that brought him in front of Eames. He slid his hand into Eames's and gripped tight. Eames tugged him a little closer, still looking up at him. 

"You gave me to SomniCore," he said.

Arthur froze. "Eames. SomniCore is gone. We took care of that. Remember?"

Eames nodded, dazed. "I know. I meant before. Twelve years ago. Do you remember that?"

His breath caught in his throat. Yes, of course he remembered. It had been when he'd first started tracking him, and his overseers had wanted the information on this new talent, this forger out of England. Luke Bishop.

"That's right," Arthur said. "I located you for them. I tracked you down for years, you were my biggest project."

"Quite," Eames said. "I just never knew that it was you who handed me to them the first time."

"Of course it was. Eames, why are you bringing this up now?"

"Do you have any idea what they did to me?"

Arthur tried to pull his hand away, but Eames held tighter. "I don't – no, I don't. I didn't give it much thought."

"Well it doesn't matter," Eames said. "It really doesn't, because what I did to you was far worse."

"Okay." He tried to calm his stuttering heart. This was leading to something terrible, something that Arthur didn't want to hear about. Eames had betrayed him. They were coming to kill him now, right here, on this train. "When? And how? Please." The hand gripping his started to shake. "Eames?"

Eames's hand trembled harder, the same kind of spasming it had been doing that morning; christ, not even twelve hours ago, and already everything had changed. It had only taken a few hours.

"God, I can't even touch you," Eames said. He pulled his hand back and cradled it in his lap.

Arthur got to his knees in front of him. He didn't know what else to do, so he snapped his fingers in front of his face. "Hey," he barked. "What is this shit? Yes you can." He took that same hand and put it against his face. It felt cold and strangely alien. Eames pulled back as if he'd been burned.

"I can't, because you're not mine. You never have been and you can't be, after what I did to you."

" _What did you do?_ "

"It was called Project Voodoo," he said. "It started fourteen years ago, two years before you caught up to me actually. And Arthur, for all that they tormented me for weeks, it is still nothing close to what I inflicted on you."

This all sounded like babble, and now, on top of his panic and anger, he was getting really fucking annoyed. "You're really going to have to explain this to me," he said. "Now."

Eames told him the story, staring at the wall behind him as if he was telling it to no one, or simply recording it without emotion. Arthur felt like his brain was coming unraveled. How could this be? He didn't remember a thing. None of this sounded familiar; yet it made sense. It filled in the gap that Ann had described to him, those lost four months of school. He'd made his grades and kept up with his classes, but he could not remember a single day of that time. 

"Because they erased it," Eames said, nearing the end of the story. "Like they did with all of us, they erased the project, and Arthur, they were going to erase you, too. And I was going to let them. It was Ann who saved you. She called in a favor to spare your life, while I walked away like nothing had happened. I spent months forging your darkest secrets, worming into your head, fucking around with your fears and failures and then I threw you to the dogs. I'm sure you are well aware of what all that mind-rape did to you after that."

And that, Arthur could remember. The night terrors, hell, night _psychosis_ , for nearly a year after that lost winter. How he'd nearly failed out of college, and no one could share a dorm with him, the psychologists and psychiatrists and, fuck everything, the _cops_ and the FBI, the hypnotism and the endless meddling by the system to find out what was wrong with him, what he had done that was so terrible that it had turned his dreams into living horrors. And all they could come up with was that he'd lost his girlfriend in high school and he should not be having such an extreme stress reaction to that.

He pulled his hands over his hair, trying to smooth down his edges. He took a breath. Fourteen years ago. And after that, Dom and Mal had come along and had finally, blessedly, helped him. And then SomniCore.

He dropped his head against Eames's thigh and came to a decision.

"Whatever," he said. "It's all right." 

"What's all right?" Eames sounded mystified. 

"Everything. What you did. What , _they_ did. It has to be. I'll talk to Ann. Thank her, give her whatever she wants, and ask her to just leave us alone. It's okay, is what I'm saying. Eames." He looked up at him, gripping his calf and giving him a little shake. "I mean it. It's all right. Is... I mean is it... Do you forgive me for what I did to you?"

"Yes," Eames said. He still sounded, and looked, lost. As if he had not expected this.

"Then what the fuck?" Arthur said. "It was fourteen years ago, I didn't know you, you didn't know me. How many times did we work for separate people, even work against each other? It's over. Why does this surprise you?" He thought of Dinclusin's hand on Eames's back, and considered, for a second, _It isn't over._ Then he banished the thought as useless. Dinclusin had tried to put his hands all over Eames since day one on the train; that last time a few minutes ago was really no different.

"I guess... I don't know," Eames said. "It shocked me-- _shocks_ me still—that I could hurt you like that and then throw you away. And I suppose it shocks me also that you handed me over for a few rounds of torture."

"Torture?" His ribs felt too tight for his lungs, like he was being squeezed by a giant, cold hand. "With – with SomniCore?"

"Yeah." Eames sounded hollowed out and cold.

"I didn't know. I swear to you. I didn't."

"Would it have stopped you?"

_Yes._ "I don't know," was what he said. "I was pretty good at following orders. I didn't ask questions. Let me think." And he did, he really thought about it, because lying to end this quickly would only further ruin him. He pictured Eames, ridiculously young and thinking he was some kind of tough guy, finding out quickly that he wasn't so tough. Cracking under constant pain. No, of course Arthur would never set him up for that. Not now. But back then?

"I think," he said finally, "that if I knew they were torturing people, I wouldn't have even worked for them. I probably would have run. Cobb and Mal would have, too. They didn't know. Eames, we brought down SomniCore. _Twice._ The four of us the first time, you and me and Cobb swept up the dirty remnants last year. _Yes_ it would have stopped me."

Eames ran his hands through his hair, over his eyes, over his face. He looked tireder than Arthur had ever seen him. He looked defeated. 

"Nothing's changed," Arthur insisted. "Okay, we found out some truths, but we're still the same people we were this morning. _Nothing has changed._ "

"Arthur," Eames said. His voice was flat, without the usual purring fondness that Arthur pretended to put up with. "Everything has changed."

"You're tired," Arthur said. "Listen. Get some rest, I'll stay up and take first watch. Just in case anyone decides to come in, try to hook us up or whatever. Tomorrow I'll just go to Ann, ask her what she wants and cut a deal. Get the train moving and then we'll get out of here and forget about this. Eames." He got up onto his knees and cupped the back of Eames's head, bringing their foreheads together. "Come on. Let this go, at least for now."

Eames rested against him, his eyes closed, but only for a second before pulling away. "Right," he said, all business. "You'll stand guard?"

"Of course I will, for fuck's sake." The suspicion, unspoken but clearly there, hurt worse than anything.

This time Eames didn't answer. He just settled back against the bed, exhausted, and folded his hands across his stomach. He stared at the top bed while Arthur stared at him, until he clearly grew uncomfortable and shifted his face the other way, to look at the wall.

Arthur sat back against the bottom bed. He was starving; he hadn't eaten in too long and he didn't dare risk leaving Eames alone to beg for food from their captors. As quietly as he could, he dragged over his briefcase and clicked it open. He had a half-eaten bag of pretzels which he picked at until they were gone. He tried to chew them quietly. 

"Eames," he said, turning around, "do you want some pretzels before I finish them?"

His answer was a soft grunt and a shake of the head.

He sighed and turned back. The only other edible thing in the compartment was the box of chocolates he had stolen for Eames on the first night. Despondently, he picked one up and unwrapped it. It was stupid, actually, that remembering how pleased Eames had been with stolen chocolates was what finally got to him. It wasn't like Eames had gone anywhere. He was right there, behind him on the bed for fuck's sake.

"Eames," he whispered, turning around slightly.

Eames was awake, he could tell, but this time he didn't answer. He simply lay there with his eyes closed, looking bruised and oddly frail. Arthur took his hand and pulled it to his shoulder, settling it there before turning back around. He waited for the firm grip of fingers, or even a reassuring slide over his neck, or anything. Eames just kept feigning sleep.

Arthur didn't feel hungry anymore. He sat back and waited it out, feeling more alone than he had when he'd been actually alone.

** ** ** **

 

Eames tried to rest with Arthur sitting guard, but sleep eluded him. Arthur was a good point, maybe even the best, and he'd always had his team's back, but something was off. No matter what he told himself, Eames didn't feel safe behind Arthur's watchful eyes.

He heard him sigh, and eventually heard him pull his briefcase across the floor. Eames wondered what he was going to try to do, what he was looking for. Something to repair his cell phone connection, or maybe he was reaching for something more sinister? Which was logically ridiculous, and he knew it. Arthur had no reason to act out of character. He realized that his fear was irrational, but that didn't get rid of the thrumming adrenaline, the pointless suspicion. 

Instead of the clicking of gadgets, Eames heard the rustling of a plastic bag, and then a moment later, muffled crunching of whatever Arthur was eating. _Pretzels_ , he remembered. Arthur always brought pretzels when he traveled. 

Arthur asked him, almost ridiculously, if he wanted some pretzels. No he did not want any goddamn pretzels, he just wanted to feel like himself again. He wanted to be able to sleep. Or at least to think clearly.

Another few moments passed and then he heard a foil wrapper, and knew immediately that it was one of the chocolate truffles that Arthur had stolen for him. The knowledge sent a pang through his chest, almost of mourning.

"Eames?" Arthur's soft voice surprised him.

He didn't trust himself to answer, so he kept his eyes closed and his face turned away. Yet another surprise came when he felt Arthur's cold hand on his, pulling it to him. He didn't know what to expect. When Arthur put his hand against his shoulder and then settled back against the bed, it took a few seconds before it started to hurt.

It hurt to touch Arthur, the same way it had hurt to try touching Ann's mirror. After a few moments, his hand went entirely numb. Yet he still didn't remove it. Arthur wanted it there. A little numbness wasn't going to make him further break Arthur's heart. Because for all that he felt he had lost something vital, he still didn't have it in him to hurt Arthur. To hurt him worse, as it were.

Eventually, he was able to more or less ignore the feeling—or lack thereof—and keep his eyes closed.

The things that Jack had showed him played through his mind. The way he'd fucked around with Arthur, who'd been just some poor, messed up university kid. 

The way that SomniCore had fucked around with him. He'd mostly put that behind him. It was years ago, ages ago, before he was even Eames. For so long, it had seemed like that had happened to someone else. Yet suddenly it was right there at the surface again, where he could see it so clearly.

He had certainly been afraid at different times in his life before his time at SomniCore. He'd gotten hurt, even badly hurt. He'd even cried over it, maybe once or twice, privately, when he'd been just a kid. But until he'd landed in their hands, he'd never, not once in his life, ever begged. They'd gotten that from him. 

He thought he'd long since forgotten the faces of those people, too; the ones who had held him down and hurt him, truly damaged him for the first time ever. But he found, on reflection, that he hadn't buried those faces so deeply after all. He could, in fact, call them up into his conscious memory with ease. It wasn't that he wanted to, yet, there they were. Looming over him in the semi-dark.

As if it was happening currently, all at once. He wasn't Eames on a train somewhere in the middle of Siberia. If he let his mind wander (and wander it did seem to want to do,) he could so easily be that terrified boy again, at that very moment. 

They came towards him and he couldn't move. They shined lights in his eyes, screamed at him, and threatened him with cold, sharp, metal things that they eventually used. Drugged him up, and broke a few of his fingers, but only after the drugs wore off.

The worst was being locked up. He was in that room, alone, with nothing but the ticking of the clock and the flashing of the lights, and there was no way out. They were going to kill him and there was no way out, if he ever saw daylight again it would be through the haze of insanity, they were going to break him, _were_ breaking him, and the next time one of them came to drag him out of that room, he would be ready. He would have to be. Fighting back was his only option, while he was still able. He'd have to do it before they broke his legs.

The door opened and a sliver of too-bright light blinded him. All he saw of the man was a silhouette. He stood up, disoriented. Even though he was on his feet, his proprioception told him, somehow, that his body was still reclining. Well. That was the drugs.

"Eames," the man said to him, menacing, dominating him with just a shadow. It was wrong, that wasn't his name, his name most certainly was not Eames but what did it matter? It was time to end this. He had to save his own life.

"Come on," the voice said. "Wake up."

He threw himself at the shadow of the man (wrong, again, wrong, because he didn't even feel like he was upright,) and landed on top of him.

Of course, the shadow of a man fought back, struggled against him because the idea was to keep him there in that room forever, until he went out of his mind. So the man struggled and Eames struggled back harder. He fought, pinning his assailant with all his weight, and finally got his hands around the man's neck.

The choked cry and cold hands gripping at his wrists might have invoked pity, if he hadn't spent a week in the dark. If he wasn't fighting for his life. But no, this man had tormented him and was coming to finish the job. He had to die.

"Eames..." a strangled voice croaked. After it he heard the labored drag of breath that he wouldn't allow again.

A sudden and painful pressure right up against his balls startled him. It wasn't so sudden or so hard that it crippled him – it was just there, like a warning. Someone's hand gripping, threatening. Why did they stop, he wondered? He could have so easily been toppled by that.

"Pl-- Ea--" Choked, crushed half-sounds came from the man below him. The pressure eased up a little. He was almost there. In another minute he'd have a dead man crushed underneath him.

_Please, Eames_ , was what those words were meant to be. He could almost hear them in his mind. Why would someone who had tortured him be asking 'Please'? And why would he be using a name that Eames wouldn't use for at least another year?

Cold, trembling fingers trailed delicately at his cheek, and slid down over his nose and lips. The touch was familiar. Maybe the most familiar touch he knew.

The world slipped into focus. Blood buzzed into his head and his limbs, making him heavy, weak, and hot. Everything tingled, from his lips to his toes, as if his entire body had pins and needles. He was aware that he was about to faint. He removed his hands from the person beneath him and braced them on the floor. A loud, raspy, pained intake of breath came from beneath him. Horror dawned in him; he didn't yet know why.

Another breath, and he finally made the effort to focus. Grey spots fled from his vision and he was afraid to look, but he did anyway.

Arthur, blotchy with returning color, his eyes still rolled up into his head, was dragging in breaths beneath him. His hand fell away from Eames's wrist and went to his own throat, which was a bright, angry red. In the whites of his eyes, Eames could discern tiny red flecks. Arthur struggled to turn over onto his side. Eames saw his own nail marks on the back of his neck.

He scrambled backwards away from Arthur, thinking only _No, no, no._ Possibly he was saying it aloud but he couldn't tell. Arthur lay on his side coughing and struggling to breathe.

_Help him, call for help, get him water, anything, anything_ , he thought, but was unable to move. He felt paralyzed.

He _was_ paralyzed. He couldn't move his legs, his arms, and he couldn't even move his eyes to look away from Arthur. Everything went heavy and dead.

This was followed by a sick, slithering sensation that seemed to crawl through his veins and bones, and into his muscles. It was so foreign, so alien inside him that he sucked his breath in sharply and tried to twist away from it. For a moment he saw Arthur get to his hands and knees and look over his shoulder at him. His eyes were watering, his mouth was an unnatural red. He looked afraid and Eames felt terrible pity for him. He wanted to go to him, damn his shaking, traitorous hands, and wind his fingers through Arthur's hair and tell him _Please, if I ever hurt you again, I'm yours to dispose of,_ and most of all he wanted to say _I'm sorry_ and but his mouth didn't work. Nothing worked.

He fell, or so it seemed, because next he was looking at the ceiling and it was moving, or the floor was moving or _he_ was moving. He didn't know. He was nothing more than a hand-puppet being moved from the inside.

Dimly, he heard Arthur rasping for help.

** ** ** **

Eames's hand remained on his shoulder, a dead weight. After a few minutes, it started to feel uncomfortable and unwanted. But he thought maybe Eames was still awake, and to move away from him would have been wrong and confusing. He felt like their finely-honed signals, the same ones that had kept them functioning as a team for all these years, were misfiring. 

He stared at the door. Shadows lurked across the gap under the door, footsteps tapped outside. It was clear that they were being guarded in here, probably even listened to and possibly watched. He wanted to throw the door open and punch whoever it was in the face. It would probably get him shot. Logically he knew that, but it didn't dull the burning desire he felt to destroy someone.

After a few tense moments, Eames stirred behind him, properly asleep now. Arthur felt the shift in consciousness. It was a relief, with him asleep, because at least the pretending was over.

The silence didn't last long. Eames started muttering something in his sleep, some kind of distress plea. Arthur didn't need a hell of a lot of imagination to figure out what it was. ' _Stop, please,'_ and _'no_ ' made it pretty clear. It burned through Arthur's chest, the knowledge that Eames was reliving something that he himself had orchestrated. What had they done to him? Arthur had fallen under the hands of SomniCore at least twice. He had a pretty good grasp on their methods.

"Eames," he said, turning around on his knees to face the bed. He wasn't sure if he should touch him or not. Before this mess, he would have known exactly what to do. But he knelt there, watching Eames struggle with something that wasn't there. Or that was there, in his reality. "Come on," he said, "wake up."

Eames turned over. His eyes were open and empty of recognition. There was fear, though, primal and dangerous. Arthur had about two seconds in which he tried to stand up, but it wasn't enough. Eames tackled him to the floor of the compartment and wrapped his hands around his throat.

Stunned, at first Arthur just lay there, struggling to breathe but not doing much else because this couldn't be, it couldn't _be_ , Eames would wake up in a second. He was staring right at him, looking right into his eyes.

When Arthur finally registered the actual, murderous intent, and that it was directed at _him_ , disbelief gave way to fear and action. He grabbed Eames's wrist in one hand, but that was futile. In a fair fight they were about even. With leverage, he could break the hold and even break Eames's wrist. But Eames was pinning him hard, one knee on his hip, digging in painfully, and the other tight beside his ribs.

Panicking, Arthur flailed, tried to speak, tried to _breathe_ as the compartment, the ceiling, and Eames's face started to dull around the edges of his vision.

_Please, Eames,_ he tried. The pressure was unbearable; he was under the ocean, under the earth. Desperate, he tried his dirtiest trick and grabbed at his balls; he could crush him this way, cripple him for at least a few minutes. It was a warning: _Let me go._ But his hands were already numb and weak. He felt himself arching, fighting like a land-bound fish. Fuck, _fuck_ , he was going to die, Eames was going to kill him.

He could hardly see anymore, but he reached with his free hand and touched the side of Eames's face. His mind went back, years back, to when they had first met. ' _May I touch you?_ ' Eames had asked him, on waking from a bad compound. Later, Arthur had asked him the same thing.

He didn't know what he was doing. He ran his fingers down the familiar slope of Eames's nose, his mouth, a face he knew better than anyone's, maybe even his own. His hand fell away.

And then Eames let up. Not slowly, but all at once, the pressure was gone.

Arthur couldn't see, but he dragged in a painful, glorious, aching breath. It burned like acid, ached all the way down to his chest, but the oxygen was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted. His eyes were streaming and he was shaking all over as he tried to get out from under Eames. 

Eames started away from him like a frightened animal. He scurried backwards into the corner. "No, no, no, no," he repeated, sick with fear. 

Arthur got to his knees and looked over his shoulder. Eames may have looked worse than Arthur felt. His hands were clenching and unclenching without his conscious control, and he kept pushing himself backwards as if he could disappear through the wall.

Then he tipped over onto his side and arched, and Arthur thought, _Seizure_ , immediately, and knew he was in no condition to help. 

But if it was a seizure, it wasn't like any one he'd ever seen – and he had seen his fair share, in the business. This was just a helpless twisting, writhing, as if pain wracked his entire body. He didn't thrash or shake; he looked more like a man possessed. 

Arthur was terrified. He'd never seen anything like this. Still coughing, choking on air and spit, he crawled over to Eames and he didn't know what the fuck to do, he knew what to do with seizures but this wasn't, this was something else he had never seen, and Eames's eyes were rolled back and he was saying _please_ in a watery keen.

Arthur tried to yell ' _HELP_ ' but his throat was ruined probably for a few days. It hurt like fuck but he tried again, ' _help, help,_ ' as he banged on the door. 

Because fucking malevolent those people out there might be, but Dinclusin wanted Eames alive. That much he knew.

Arthur, still on his knees and watching Eames toss his head from side to side and grasp at nothing, banged his palm against the door. "Help!" he called. "Help, _Jack!_ "

** ** ** **

 

 

It wasn't Jack who opened the door to the compartment. It was the guy whose knee Arthur had fucked up earlier. He now had his knee wrapped up and was on a crutch that he must have gotten from first aid.

"What do you want?" he barked to Arthur.

Arthur wanted to shout _'What do you think I want, asshole! A doctor!_ ' but shouting anything was out of the question. "Doctor," he croaked.

The man took a look at him, and at Eames, twisting on the floor, and said "Fuck the two of you."

"Jack," Arthur managed. "Wants … alive."

"Don't tell me what Jack..." he began.

Arthur lunged forward from his knees and grabbed the crutch, yanking it hard. The guy stumbled, cried out and caught himself on the door. Before he could reach for his gun, Arthur swung the crutch and hit him in his bad knee. This time the cry of pain was much louder, sure to get someone's attention. The guy doubled over, grasping his knee.

Arthur didn't know what else to do, Eames was beside him on the floor, his struggles against whatever seemed to be holding him weakening. This guy was blocking anyone from helping them. He jerked the crutch up into the guy's chin and knocked him backwards. He wailed in pain but didn't hit the ground. 

Jack had caught him, and eased him down onto the floor of the corridor with great care. All the while he glared at Arthur, with a startling amount of hatred.

"Fuck... help... doctor..." Arthur said. _Fuck that guy, get help, Michelle's father is a doctor_ , was what was supposed to come out, but he supposed the message was clear enough. 

Jack stepped over his fallen guard and crouched next to Eames. The surprise on his face, the obvious concern, made Arthur's heart jump. Why didn't Jack know what was going on? 

"Darling," Jack said, one hand on Eames's shoulder and the other on his face. "Wake up, come on!" He turned to Arthur, angry and accusing. "What did you do to him?"

Arthur lost his mind. He knew he lost his mind, he knew it was stupid, and that the worst thing to do would be to punch Jack in the face – but he did it anyway. Jack's hands all over Eames, the accusation, especially after how Eames had hurt _him_ , had nearly killed him. It was too much, and punching that perfect jaw felt like a week's worth of rage set free. 

But Jack shook it off, drew his weapon, and pressed it under Arthur's chin. He grabbed Arthur's hair and snarled, "What did you do to him?"

Arthur, having lost his mind and being aware of this fact, was about to spit in his face, when Michelle's father Daniel appeared in the door.

"Help him," Arthur said, looking past Jack's shoulder. 

Fortunately, Daniel didn't have to be told twice and was more interested in actually helping than in the pissing contest that was going on in the compartment.

Jack also backed away from Arthur and focused his concern on Eames. He took a moment, though, to shove Arthur towards the back of the compartment, saying "Stay out of our way."

_Later,_ Arthur promised himself. _Later I'll get you for saying 'our'._

Daniel kneeled down and checked all of Eames's vitals. He did this with practiced ease and concern, but not panic. Eames had gone still on the floor and was breathing evenly. 

For the moment, all Arthur could do was lean back against the bed, dazed. His throat hurt, his head hurt. His heart ached worst of all. He thought again of Eames's hands around his throat, the pressure, and the possibility that he was going to die. The panic. For a few seconds, again, he couldn't breathe and his head throbbed in time with his pulse. The shapes in the compartment went slippery and hazy and he was pretty sure he was blacking out. 

"Hey," said an American voice, close to his face. "Arthur."

His eyes snapped open and into focus. Daniel was kneeling in front of him now, checking his eyes. "Why don't you tell me what happened?" he asked. He glanced pointedly at Arthur's throat.

"Obviously," Jack said, "it got violent between the two of them and..."

"Excuse me," Daniel cut him off, "you weren't there and I'm not asking you. If you are honestly concerned, then do your part and please be quiet so that I can get the facts." He turned back to Arthur and said, "Did Mr. Eames do this to you?"

How to explain that? How to explain the whole of the dreaming community and its history and experiences, the bad reactions to dreaming drugs, the hallucinations, the possibility of inception? There was no way.

"He was asleep," Arthur whispered, because whispering was all he was able to do. "He called me by a different name." Eames had done no such thing, but it would make more sense that way, since obviously he had thought that Arthur was someone else. Even though that "someone else" was a person that Arthur had handed him to. "Years ago, overseas. Tortured."

Daniel's eyes went sharp with understanding. "PTSD?"

Arthur nodded. "I woke him. He saw me... understood. Then he fell." His throat was already talked-out. He swallowed what felt like hot blood and glass, and continued. "Not a seizure."

"It didn't look like one," Daniel agreed, "at least by the time I got here, but there are different kinds of seizures. Does he have a condition?"

Arthur shook his head. 

"Drugs?" Daniel asked.

Arthur shook his head again. Then he gave it another thought. "Under torture," he said. "Long ago. Not by choice." It wasn't an exact truth nor an exact lie. It was all he had.

"Something triggered a relapse," Daniel said. "A reaction he might have had years ago, when this happened to him. Do the two of you ever discuss this? Is his doctor aware? Someone in his, his league or whatever it is?"

Again, Arthur had no answer for this. No, they had never discussed it, not until tonight when Eames had told him that he was personally responsible for his capture. For about three awful seconds, Arthur was sure he was going to cry. Instead he pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead and rubbed it hard. 

"Hey," Daniel said. "He seems all right, just asleep. He'll come back around in a bit. If only we could get off this train. I'll tell him, yes? That man, Jack. I'll tell him that Mr. Eames needs help and we've got to start the train again."

"Don't bother," Jack said, turning towards them. "He's fine, you said it yourself. I'll stay with him."

"I don't think it's wise," Daniel said. 

"You don't know the whole story," Jack said. He jabbed his finger towards Arthur. "What this man tells you is ninety percent false. He knows more than he lets on. The man you all know as Mr. Eames is my responsibility now. I can take care of him from here."

"With all due respect," came another voice from the doorway. Female, British and annoyed. It was Helen. "Which is to say, none at all, I'd believe Arthur over you. It seems that you and your thugs were the ones who took my daughter and then made the train stop. I daresay that puts you a few rungs down on the ladder of trust."

"Helen," Daniel said, a warning in his voice. 

"Mum?" Michelle's voice came from behind her mother. She sounded watery and still a little stunned. "They made two more people leave."

Helen's eyes narrowed as she turned back to Jack.

_Made two more people leave?_ Arthur thought. _They who? Leave what?_

"Well," Helen snapped, "there you have it, _Jack._ At least these two men here never threw passengers out into the blizzard to die."

"What?" Arthur tried to say, but then fell forward coughing. Daniel braced him with one hand, and with the other, reached for a half-finished bottle of water that Arthur had left by the bed earlier. He pressed it into his hand. Arthur drank small sips, looking from Daniel, to Jack, to Helen, waiting for someone to clear this up.

"That was their decision," Jack said. He went back to petting Eames.

"It was not!" Michelle said. Arthur still couldn't see her from his place on the floor. "If you hadn't stopped the train..."

"It was _their decision,_ " Jack insisted.

Arthur looked imploringly at Helen.

"A couple decided to try to leave," Helen said. "They thought their mobiles would work outside of the train. Those two brothers caught them trying to sneak off. Oh, they laughed and laughed and told them to go ahead and get off if that's what they wanted."

"It's freezing," Arthur croaked. "Blizzard."

"Yes, I am aware," Helen said. Her eyes were wet. "They'll probably die. When others objected to this, they were told to get off the train, too. Your oh-so-kind associates, Jack, shoved an elderly man toward the door."

Jack ignored her. He just kept kneeling beside Eames, stroking his hair and murmuring. Arthur watched him dully for a few seconds. That should be him beside Eames, waiting for him to wake up. Waiting to explain everything to him, and to tell him that they were fine and nothing had changed. 

He thought of the old matching couple he had watched, and wondered if that was the man Helen was talking about. How frightened he must have been, and maybe how disappointed that he and his wife had survived so much, only to end up on a hijacked train in the last quarter of their lives together, ordered around at gunpoint.

He thought about how cold it was outside, and how dark, in the middle of nowhere. No moonlight, even, just the lights from the train for a few yards and then nothing. Would they find cell phone service out there? No, of course they wouldn't. They would just find themselves huddled and freezing.

Arthur looked at Eames, at Jack's hands all over him, and thought about what kind of man he was. And if Eames woke up and he was gone, would knowing Arthur for ten years – knowing what he would do in this situation – be enough? He hoped so. It had to be.

Arthur got to his feet.

"I figured you'd make that decision," Jack said, without looking at him.

"Where are you going?" Daniel asked.

Arthur shook his head. His voice wouldn't work anyway. He just pocketed his cell phone and reached for his coat.

"Oh, now who said you could take your coat?" Jack asked.

Arthur stopped, his hand on the coat, and stared at him. He looked toward the goon in the hallway, the one he'd beaten down with his own crutch. The guy had his hand on his gun. He was smiling, sickly sweet.

"You're insane," Helen said to Jack. Or maybe she said it to Arthur; he wasn't looking at her so he couldn't tell.

Jack ignored her. Arthur swallowed past the burn in his throat and knelt briefly next to Eames. "Wait," he whispered. "Just wait for me." He reached out to touch him, but Jack swatted him away. Arthur grabbed Jack by the throat, but found himself face to face with Jack's gun once again.

"Arthur?" Eames murmured. His eyes were still closed.

The weight of Jack's hatred when he leveled Arthur with his stare was a violent, heavy thing. Arthur smiled at him.

"Go," Jack said. "Before I kill you myself." He released the safety and pressed the muzzle to Arthur's forehead.

Arthur rose to his feet once more.

"Oh," Jack said. "Don't forget your hat, darling." He grabbed Arthur's fedora from the desk beside the bed and threw it at him. Arthur caught it without looking away from him. "It's a bit cold, you know," Jack added.

Arthur set it atop his head – it was better than nothing, anyway -- and glanced at Helen as he passed. Helen didn't try to stop him, but Michelle grabbed onto his sleeve.

"Don't die," she said.

Arthur nodded. 

"They went north," she added. "Like fifteen minutes ago? Maybe they didn't get far."

Arthur doubted they had. He also doubted that they'd be allowed back on the train. For that matter, neither would he. But he would find a way to survive out there, and he would help them find a way, too.

"How many?" he asked.

"Four," Michelle said. "The Nelsons and the Charles's, you know, that old couple. They had their coats and hats on and stuff."

"Show ... door ... left from."

"Which door they left from?" Michelle said. "Okay, well... we'll bring you there."

They did, the three of them: Helen, Daniel and Michelle. They were trailed the whole way by the crippled goon, who kept chuckling softly under his breath, his gun drawn. 

Crowds of frightened passengers parted for them and tried to make themselves small and insignificant, wanting no part of any of this. He didn't blame them. It must have looked like he was being taken somewhere for execution. Maybe he even was.

Arthur wondered, but only for a second, what would happen if he turned around, disarmed the guy (which he could easily do,) and opened fire on all the rest of the guards. But he already knew the answer: that he'd probably get some civilians killed, and it would do nothing to help the people who had left the train.

Finally they reached the door, which was at the farthest car. Michelle tugged at Arthur's shirt (which, he was so very aware, offered no protection from the elements,) and whispered, "When Mr. Eames..."

The crippled goon slapped her, hard enough that she stumbled, falling into her mother's arms. Daniel made a move to hit, or shove, or punch, or somehow retaliate. Arthur beat him to it. He broke the goon's nose. Not the wisest thing he'd done by far, but adrenaline was shaking through him and it needed an outlet. This asshole slapping some little kid was the last fucking straw and once Arthur started hitting him, he couldn't stop. He fell to his knees, straddling the man beneath him and punching, punching, punching. There was some fuzzy-sounding commotion, someone screaming or yelling, but those were in the background, under the sound of blood roaring in his ears and the sound of bones crunching under his fists. The old rage. It felt hot. 

A gunshot finally cleared the red haze of anger from his vision. Arthur's immediate reaction was to mentally check his body for the ice-cold feeling of a bullet-wound, pre-pain. He didn't feel it.

When he looked up, Helen was covering Michelle's eyes with both her hands and holding her close. Daniel was crouching down, mid-reach toward the unconscious goon's gun holster. A helpful, brave gesture, Arthur registered. 

And Giles Fenderlyn was holding his own gun high, aimed at the ceiling. He was staring at Arthur.

"Go," he said. "I _can_ kill you. It wouldn't be ideal, but I can. Better for everyone if you just do it yourself though. Easier to explain, neater." He jerked his head toward the door.

Arthur was out of choices. He stood up and spared a glance to the unconscious man beneath him. Spitting on him would be wrong. Besides, his mouth was completely dry. He stumbled away and hauled the door open. Before he even stepped onto the frozen metal stairs, the icy wind hit him like a mack truck to the chest. It burned in his throat, pierced through his ears and head. His eyes felt frozen in their sockets. He took the step down anyway, jerking the door shut behind him before falling down the steps and coughing, which seared his throat like nothing ever had. 

Before he was even able to straighten up and take a step, the wind whipped the fedora from his head. He caught a glimpse of it as it flew over the top of the train, likely to the other side of it.

"Fuck," he said, but couldn't hear his own voice in the howl of the wind.

It wasn't just freezing – it was about ten below. Wind chill was probably worse. And the snow was wet and clingy, already sticking to the bottom of his pants, and pasting his shirt to his chest.

For the first time since boarding the train, Arthur had his doubts that he could survive this.

He saw no footprints leading away, even in the dim light offered by the train's windows. The wind had already swept them away, or more snow had perhaps covered them.

Trudging a few steps, Arthur marveled at the impossibility of his task. Find four people in this white-out? When as soon as he was a good few yards away from the train, it was completely dark? He'd probably be hypothermic before he even got close to them. The cold _hurt_ , a deep ache all the way to his lungs, his bones. His hands were already numb.

Still, he dug into his pocket and took out his cell phone. He had no service, but it was fully charged. It could go for maybe a few hours, possibly more.

Touching the screen, Arthur was bathed in the blue glow of his home-page. Resolutely, he held it aloft like a beacon. If anyone was within reaching distance, they would see his signal.

He hoped they would see it before he lost the ability to go on.

 

** ** ** **

Eames thought of Arthur's strong, long-fingered hands, firmly smoothing over his hair. Something about that felt wrong, though. Someone was touching him, and it would be nice if it was Arthur, but there was something different, something painfully off about his feelings when he thought of him. As if they had changed, and he just couldn't bring into focus why. Or maybe he didn't want to. At any rate, the hand on his head didn't feel like Arthur's. 

"What..." he said, opening his eyes. The light burned them, as if his pupils were too wide. He tried to shield them, but something held his hands in place, uncomfortably. He felt like they were somehow stretched over his head, but he didn't know how that could be.

"Shh, it's okay." 

Jack's vivid eyes came into focus, showing concern and his own brand of affection. Eames tried to sit up, to move away from the face that was hovering so close to his. He was on the floor. He went to prop himself up on his hands and rise, but both his hands were bound. He looked from Jack, up to his his wrists, which were both cuffed to one of the chains that suspended the bottom bed in place. Then he looked back to Jack again.

"You," he said, but couldn't think of the words to follow it. He had so many and none at all.

"It's not what it looks like," Jack said. He backed off, holding his hands up, harmless and placating.

"It is exactly what it looks like," Eames said. "You cuffed me to a _bed_. What am I supposed to think?"

"You didn't used to mind," Jack tried, smiling as if this would lighten the situation.

Eames steadied himself with a breath. If he was in this position, then obviously other people were in danger, too – Arthur in particular. What he said and did from here on in could change a lot of things. He wanted to lash out, kick, bite, throttle. But he knew better. No one played these games like Eames, and no one could out-play him, either. Keeping calm and carrying on; that's what he did best.

"Where's Arthur?" he asked.

Jack's eyes turned sympathetic – or would have been, if not for the secretly pleased gleam in them. Eames felt his stomach drop. His mouth went dry.

"Where―"

"He left you, pet," Jack said.

He took a second to process that. Not dead, then, unless Jack was lying. "Left me," he repeated.

"Yes. I'm sorry." Jack sat back on his heels and looked down, the picture of someone concernedly giving bad news. "You were so ill, darling, I had a doctor come to look at you, everyone was worried―he says you're fine, by the way―but you hadn't even regained consciousness yet, and Arthur was already gone from the train."

Eames knew that at least some of this was bullshit. Though it was possible that Jack had fetched a doctor or something, he distinctly remembered that Arthur had been with him when...

When...

When he had wrapped his hands around Arthur's throat and crushed him almost to death. Arthur had struggled beneath him, trapped and probably terrified, of _him_ , no less, and in an act of what felt like pleading, a touch that Eames would never forget, had stroked his fingers over his face. 

"I hurt him," he whispered, mostly to himself.

"You didn't mean to," Jack said. "It was clear that you didn't realize it was him. I suspect you thought he was one of those men who tortured you. The ones that he sold you to all those years ago. Perhaps understanding that he was behind that affected you badly. I take the blame for that because I told you the truth about it."

Eames's thoughts turned dark. How did Jack know what he'd been dreaming of? And how easy it was for him to pin it on Arthur. _Yet it's all true,_ something deep within his mind whispered, a reminder. _Arthur did cause that, he did hand you over._ The idea felt ugly and alien inside of him. And Jack had counted on it. 

"And then he left," Jack said, "before you had a chance to explain or to even wake up. He didn't wait around to see if you were even going to be all right."

There was something missing here, something that Jack didn't know: That there was no way in hell Arthur would go out into the cold. No, he had to still be on the train. Here, Eames would catch him in a lie. "Tell me," he said, "why would Arthur leave the train? It doesn't make sense."

"I didn't think it did, either," Jack said. "But, well, a whole group of people left, actually. They just wandered off into the blizzard..."

"No."

Jack looked up, surprised.

"I am so thoroughly insulted," Eames said, "that you think me stupid enough to buy that line of bullshit. I thought you knew me? You pretended to have."

Jack reached out and rested his hand on Eames's thigh. He knew better than to pull away. Arthur could be on the other side of the door for all he knew, held at gunpoint by someone waiting for Jack's word to pull the trigger.

"I do know you," Jack said. "God, it's like yesterday, now that I've remembered. You were so beautiful back then, like nothing I'd ever seen, a work of art. Seeing you now, like this. A man, so worldly, so _ripe_ , and still so fucking beautiful... You always undid me. You still do, now more than ever."

If Eames had his hand free, he would have slapped it to his own forehead. He'd heard better lines in bars. He simply glared, and waited for him to answer the question.

"I told you," Jack said, sounding meek and apologetic, "Arthur left the train."

"Quite," Eames said. "He just went out into a blizzard for no known reason. Or just to get away from me. Is that what you're trying to tell me? Oh, and a group of people left with him? Come on. I'm going to find out the truth. You must know."

"It is the truth," Jack said. "About four people decided they'd fare better on their own, or they wanted to try to get a mobile signal, and no matter what you think, by the way, I am not responsible for this being a dead zone. Arthur followed them off. Without a word to you."

_Arthur followed them off,_ Eames repeated in his mind. _No, he didn't just follow them. He went to rescue them._

"Who else left?" He was thinking of Michelle. Impetuous tyke like that would try some such ridiculous stunt for sure.

"Some rich couple," Jack said, rubbing his face tiredly as if this meant nothing, "and two old people, a couple, I don't know, darling. They made their decision and Arthur made his. No one forced them to leave."

Eames knew exactly who he was talking about. Of course Arthur would go out after them. That's the kind of man Arthur was. Once he knew that his partner was breathing and stable, he'd go out on a civilian rescue mission. Eames would have done the same thing. He actually had to smile, thinking of it. Brave Arthur; responsible, reliable, responsive Arthur, who gave as good as he got and often better, in every aspect of his life. In the field, in work, in crime, in bed, in general.

Stupid Arthur, also, out in a Siberian blizzard with nothing more than his wool hat, gloves and long coat; a dark spot in a white-out. Eames could nearly picture him. 

Then he glanced to where Arthur hung that coat of his in the compartment, and saw it still hanging there. He looked sharply back to Jack.

"Why would he leave his coat?"

Jack shrugged. "I don't know, darling." Finally he sounded impatient, as if he was just so tired of answering all of Eames's annoying questions. The final ruse of the liar who is too tired to keep spinning the lies. "He didn't say and I have no way of knowing what goes on in the minds of men like _that_. He just left without it."

"I'm going after him."

Jack smiled slowly. "See, I thought you would say that. I can't understand it, darling. Why you waste your time, your heart, on someone who would leave you like this for a group of strangers. Tell me, does he even know your real name? This is a man who won't even address you by your assumed _first_ name. ' _Eames_ '," he scoffed. "Meaningless. But I know he's got his hooks in you and that you would try to put yourself in danger for him. That's why..." He nodded towards Eames's cuffed hands. "I don't want you in danger. I'm very hurt that you thought I meant something else by restraining you. I would never. I just want to keep you safe and I knew you'd want to follow him out to your death."

_Death_. Eames swallowed hard. It was below zero. Arthur had left without his coat, for whatever reason. Maybe someone else had offered him theirs? No. It hadn't gone like that. Jack had forced him to leave, threatened him in some way. The people outside in the blizzard would have only a few hours before frostbite started to set in. Arthur didn't have that long. He had to get free.

"Leave me alone," he said to Jack.

"What? Pet, I..."

"No, really. Fuck off. I need to be alone to think about this." He jerked his chin towards the door. "Go. I'll call for you if I need you, as I assume you'll have someone guarding the door."

Jack sighed. He nodded. "Wish I could trust you enough to call them off. You'll really call on me?"

"Yes, of course. Go on, do as you're told. I need some time."

Jack leaned in to kiss him, and Eames allowed him to, the faster to get him the fuck out of there without a fight.

Once Jack closed the door behind him, Eames set about looking for ways to loosen the chains on the bed. He disliked killing in general, and it was always a bad night when he knew that he was going to have to do it soon.

** ** ** **


	6. Chapter 6

"The Sky Above Us Shoots To Kill"

 

Five minutes had passed since he'd left the train; Arthur checked every minute or so on his cell phone. Five minutes and he had already switched hands ten times as he held the phone aloft. He held it now in his left hand, with his right pressed against his neck, which was marginally warmer than anywhere else. He walked on. His thighs had stopped burning and now felt like two dead weights that he had to carry, rather than the other way around. 

Thirty seconds, and he switched hands again. This time he slid his free hand down the back of his pants and pressed it against his ass. _Fuck_ that was unpleasant for his ass, but his hand burned with returning warmth. His fingers cramped and he was able to move then around a little. It felt creepy, like someone else's hand on his ass. _Baba Yaga's feeling me up,_ he thought, and stifled a delirious laugh. He'd googled Baba Yaga before coming on this trip. It was a cool story, he liked her duality, and he chose to interpret her as wise and helpful instead of hideous and evil.

Another five minutes passed and Arthur felt like his lungs were seizing up. If it was possible to drown in cold air, he was doing it. His feet started to drag. He'd been off the train for ten minutes and hadn't made good time. When he looked back over his shoulder, he could see the lights from the windows. He still heard it idling, too. He hadn't gone far at all. How far had the others gone?

He was tired. Once or twice he stumbled. Or maybe it was just once; he couldn't remember, and he thought that should alarm him. He fell again, and this time his hands were too slow to prevent his fall. He went face down into the snow. But he did keep his grip on the cell phone. He hauled himself back up, his shirt now soaked and clinging to him in frosty patches.

At twelve minutes, he thought he was hallucinating, because he definitely hard voices. "Baba Yaga?" he said, to no one but himself. And, yes, oh, there she was in the distance, but not _too_ distant – two blue eyes glowing at him from the blackness ahead. The eyes moved out of tandem, leaving trails and bright streaks behind them. 

Arthur shook his head, slapped himself in the face, and hardly felt it.

_You fucking idiot, those are cell phones._

He laughed at himself, waved his cell phone back, and kept walking. The voices grew louder. The snow was starting to taper off, and the wind quieted. 

"Over here, over here!" shouted a woman's voice, followed by a man's, repeating the same words.

He couldn't shout back. He just kept moving.

** ** ** **

 

Eames rattled his literal chains for good measure, because he knew that if he was too quiet, those guards at his door would really suspect something. But if he made frustrated sounds as if he was trying, and failing, to escape, they'd probably just laugh off his efforts.

He braced one foot against the bottom of the bed and pulled against the chain. The bed jerked around and it was only then that he realized it was meant to fold up against the wall for more space. For what, he couldn't imagine, it wasn't like people were ballroom dancing inside these compartments. Maybe it was for more storage space, perhaps for a couple that actually shared a bed and would sleep together on the top bunk. He and Arthur didn't tend to sleep together unless they ended up that way, which was rare. 

But then, maybe it was like Jack had said. Maybe they weren't … whatever he'd thought they were. Eames couldn't think what that was. Wasn't it good enough, what he had with Arthur?

_He only calls you by your assumed last name. Does he even know your real first name?_

Of course Arthur knew. He'd known it for years. He'd found it out after going through all of his official papers, before turning him over. Arthur knew everything.

"Fuck," Eames said, panting. He needed to be reasonable. Jack wanted him emotional and unsure. No one was better than Eames at playing this game, _no one_. He was the one who unsettled people, he was the one who made them question and worry and wonder. He was the con-man. Not the other way around.

No, this would be easy. Arthur's case of gadgets was somewhere in this room. If he could reach it, even with his feet, and somehow kick it onto the bed, he'd be able to find a screwdriver of some sort and unscrew the bolts that held the chain to the bed. His hands would still be cuffed, but he'd be halfway free. And then it wouldn't take too much longer to pick the lock of the cuffs. 

But 'too much longer' was too vague a term when it came to Arthur freezing to death outside.

A female voice came from outside the door, clipped and elegant: "Let me pass."

 _Ann_ , Eames thought. _Good. I can play her._

The door slid open and she came into the room, her face impassive, but pale. Eames turned to her. 

Before he could get a word out, she took a swing at him. He allowed her to, just to show he was harmless. But he wasn't prepared for the searing pain and wetness he felt. She packed quite a punch, it fucking actually hurt, and he fell sideways onto the bed.

"Jesus," he said.

Ann was holding up her shattered mirror, now streaked with his blood. Fuck, she'd hit him with glass and broken it against his face. No wonder it hurt. He felt the blood trickling down his temple to his cheek.

"I hate you," she said. "I hate thieves, always with your hands on other people's property. But mostly I hate _you_. You stole more from me than some little brat who wanted a shiny mirror." She tossed it aside in disgust. It clattered into the corner, shining with his blood caked into the fragments.

Eames made no move towards her, opting to remain seated on the bed, looking up at her. He weighed his words carefully.

"I love Arthur," he said. She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up his cuffed hands as much as he could. "I know you have this idea that I stole him from you or something. But I didn't even meet him until years after the project. Or, meet him again, I suppose. I've stolen a lot in my day, sure. But Arthur is an adult and he makes his own decisions."

"Don't you patronize me," she said.

"And as such," Eames went on, "he chose, probably about ten minutes ago, to get off the train--"

"Liar."

"To try to rescue a group of tourists that _your thugs_ threw into the blizzard."

Again she opened her mouth to speak, but then she closed it again, frowning.

Eames nodded toward Arthur's coat, hanging by the door. "Your brother, Jack, made him leave without his coat, at gunpoint. Then he cuffed me to the bed so that I couldn't follow. I didn't see this happen because I was, for some inexplicable reason, unconscious at the time. But Jack had a nasty bruise on his jaw that I can only imagine resulted from a scuffle that ended with Arthur outside in a blizzard without his coat."

"That can't be true," she said. "Arthur would never..."

"Go outside in sub-zero weather to rescue some civilians? You only remember a frightened college boy. I've known him for ten years. He's a point man. He doesn't leave anyone behind to die; it's what makes him the best. He's also resourceful. But it's below zero, Ann. How long do you think he's got, while we sit here arguing about whether it's true or not?"

She had nothing to say to that. She went a little paler.

"Go ask around," he said. "Someone must have seen it. Maybe a few people did."

Her eyes narrowed and her mouth hardened into a sharp, red line. "My brother wants you alive," she said. "But if I find out you're saying these things to get me to release you, I'll come back here and put a bullet in your lying mouth."

"I am saying it to get you to release me," Eames said. "So that I can go out after him. You'd better hurry."

She tried to stare him down, but only for another few seconds. She was still pale, her face tight and angry, when she left the room.

Eames went back to his efforts, trying to reach Arthur's box of gadgets with his feet. He was so close. But seconds were ticking by. Eames counted them in terms of Arthur's probable body temperature.

In the end, he didn't have a lot of time to himself. He had only just turned back to look at the screws that held the chain, really starting to worry now, when the door opened again.

He turned to see both Fenderlyn brothers swaggering into the tiny room.

"Christ, what now," he sighed.

Neither answered right away, except to stare at him slyly. He didn't like the way they were both grinning. He didn't like the way Giles was puffing on a cigar and then looking at the glowing tip, and he didn't like that Kenzie was unbuckling his holster and drawing out his gun. Those were signs that he recognized.

"Jack wants me alive," he said. "You know that."

Giles shrugged, still staring at his cigar. "We're not for Jack, are we?"

He closed the door behind him and leaned up against the dresser that Arthur had left all of his stuff on. Kenzie came to stand over Eames, knowing that he couldn't rise to his full height, and would have to remain half-crouched because he was cuffed to the bottom of the chain.

"Who are you for, then?" he asked. "Because Ann is going to be back here soon, too."

"Doubt she'd mind if we vented a bit of frustration," Giles said.

"You might find," Eames warned, "that she'll have changed her mind by then." _You also might find that I can still kick the shit out of you ,_ he thought, _provided you're not intending to shoot me._

"See," Kenzie said, rubbing an imaginary smudge off his gun, "it's this kind of lying that got my brother and I here into such a mess, oh, this would be many years ago by now, I think."

"Well as you can imagine," Eames said, "having had my memory wiped clean, I don't know what the fuck you're on about."

"No, guess you wouldn't," Giles said. "Guess he wouldn't, would he, Kenzie?"

"Guess not," Kenzie said.

Eames rolled his eyes. "For fuck's sake. Why don't you just tell me and get this thing over with instead of banging on with the noir villain banter. I've got shit to do."

"Villain?" Giles said. "Us? Oh, rich. We're the wronged party here. Took us actually seeing you to remember who you were. You're not Luke Bishop to us and you're not Thomas Eames. To us, you'd be one Robert Bowen."

"Ah," Eames said, "well that's an old name I used to steal under. And?" And, he was starting to get an idea of what was going on here.

" _And_ ," Kenzie said, "it's a really small fucking world, when it was you who stole about five large that _we_ were meant to pay off to a third party."

"A third party," Giles went on, "who was keeping us out of prison. Five-stretch, that one. So we say, fuck Jack, fuck Ann, and fuck their little schemes to retrieve the two of you. We're for _us._ "

"Oh," Eames said. Yes, he could remember lifting something like five thousand about seven years back. It was small-time, he did shit like that all the time back then. "Sorry," he shrugged. "I'm sure it was just business. So, go on and get this over with, please. I'm a bit busy."

"See," Giles said, "it's that attitude that makes it worth Jack being a little bit angry with us." He looked again at the glowing tip of his cigar as he approached.

This wasn't going to be fun, but Eames had bigger things to worry about, and he only hoped they would at least hurry up about it.

** ** ** **

When Arthur finally reached the small group, he could only see them by the dim light of three cell phones: the two that the others were holding, and his own. The younger couple was indeed the same couple he and Eames had made up stories about. Eames had said the man was a plastic surgeon and would give his wife facelifts. They were bundled up heavily. Her coat looked warm and snug and he wanted it, he wanted her coat so badly that the primal creature part of his mind, his reptile-brain, thought about ripping it off of her and burrowing into it.

"Did you bring help?" the man asked, "does your phone work, there's no service, they won't let us back on and we can't leave her, she's too weak to go back..."

"She?" Arthur tried to ask, but nothing came out. He waved his hand for silence.

The other couple was a few feet away. He held his phone outwards as he approached them. They were on the ground, in the snow, just a dark smudge against the blue-white. They were still wearing matching checked coats, that he could tell. Something wasn't right about the scene, though. Why were they on the ground?

"Hey," he said, and this time his voice carried a little better. "What... are you...?" _What happened, are you okay?_ The words didn't come out, but the idea did.

"Not good," the old man said. 

Arthur went a little closer and crouched down. The old woman was lying across her husband's lap, her face in his neck. She turned to look at him, and in the blue light, he saw her wide, wet eyes and nothing else.

"She can't make it back," the man said. "She's too weak."

"A year ago I could have done it," she said, her voice faint. "But..."

"She's been sick," the man said. "And the other two... Welp. They wanna go back to the train and we can't make it. We were huddlin' fer warmth but now they feel they gotta head on back." 

_Northeast_ , Arthur thought of the man's accent, nonsensically. 

The other couple joined them. Arthur could feel their warmth at his back and wanted to press back into them.

"We have to," the woman said. She sounded guilty, filled with regret. "We'll die out here. You know we will, Anthony."

"I'm a doctor," Anthony said. "I can't leave a sick woman..."

"I'm your _wife_ ," she snapped. "And you're just a plastic surgeon!"

He answered in a quiet voice, "Randy, I still took an oath."

"We're going to die," she said.

"No," Arthur said. "We go back together. Huddle by the train. Shelter and residual warmth. Engine. Train."

"You're cold-stupid," the old man said. "I hear it in your voice. I just told you, we ain't gonna make it back, _she can't walk_."

The woman sat up a little and looked at Arthur. "Why, where's your coat?" she asked. 

"Oh, they, when I said I was coming to look for you Jack made me leave without it. Go die, he said. But rescue mission. Priority." Even to his own ears his words didn't make sense. He tried to shake the confusion out of his head. 

"Okay," the doctor guy said, Anthony, or something. "You sound pretty bad yourself. I say we get in a huddle here and do our best."

"No," Arthur said. "Trust me. Survival training. Head back to the train, dig a crater in the snow for shelter. The train's engine."

"I agree," the old man said, "but like I told you..."

Arthur took the three steps to get to the both of them, and he crouched down again. Okay, so he was cold-stupid and his words weren't making sense, but the idea made sense in his head. And he could feel the heat from the two of them. He slid his arms under the old lady's back and knees, and for a second he just rested there, soaking up human warmth that made him shiver. 

"Help me," he said to her husband. "Lift."

"I can't carry her," the man said, "my knees..."

"I know. Together." He looked over his shoulder at Anthony. "You. Legs."

"You... you want me to take her legs? We're carrying her?"

"It's warmer by the train," Arthur insisted again. It made so much sense, he didn't know how to convey this to them. Why was everyone being so stubborn? He thumbed his cell phone off and shoved it clumsily into his pocket. "The engine. The _train_."

"Right," the man said. He came around to Arthur's side and slid his arm under the lady's legs. For a second he was pressed up against Arthur and it felt like heaven. "On three," Anthony said, but Arthur was already struggling to stand up. "Okay then." He stood up with Arthur, and the two of them steadied themselves.

Together they held onto her. Her wool-clad arms went around Arthur's neck and he got both hands under her coat, gripping around her frail back and ribs. She felt so fragile, lighter than he'd thought. Under her shirt, he could feel the sagging of her skin. He thought of what she'd gone through before this, and that maybe freezing in the Siberian tundra was nothing compared to that.

"You," he said to the younger woman, who stood there like a dark blotch against the backdrop of the distant train. "Help him." He jerked his chin toward the man who was still sitting in the snow.

"Right," she said, a little ashamed. She held out her hand to him. It wasn't enough, and eventually she had to put her arm around his waist to help him up.

"Stay close," Arthur said. "Make good time. It's not far, twelve minutes."

They started walking. Twelve minutes it had taken him to get here; it seemed like an age. With this group, trudging so slowly, he thought that would double their time. Already the older man was panting as he tried to keep up. 

"Thank you," the lady said into his neck. He gloved hand came up to cup the side of his face.

He didn't care about her gratitude as much as he did about the warmth of her body, and his hands beginning to burn back to life under her coat.

He couldn't check the time as it passed, and he had lost all sense of it. The train still seemed so far away. It never seemed to get any closer. Everyone around him was huffing and puffing. Arthur was in better shape than all of them, and he was exhausted too. 

"Rest," the older man said, behind him. "Just for a minute, please."

His wife raised her face from Arthur's neck and whispered, "His heart. Please, he just needs a minute."

"Oh. Right."

"Can I put her legs down?" Anthony asked.

"Just for a minute," Arthur said. 

He felt Anthony easing the woman's legs down. She gripped his shoulders until she was steady, then sagged against him. 

"I'm sorry," she said. "It wasn't our choice to come out here. It's stupid. But Francis... that's my husband, Francis... he saw the way they treated this woman here and he stood up for her like he always does. Brave idiot. They told us if we didn't like it we could get out. They pointed guns at us. Now we're just a burden to you."

"No, it's okay, it's not a problem," Arthur said. He knew it was nonsense but he couldn't think of any other words.

"I'm Eartha," she said. 

"Eartha?" Arthur thought he must have heard wrong.

"Yes. After Eartha Kitt, my folks were big fans. Well anyway. You're Arthur, I think?"

"How does everyone know my name?" Arthur asked.

She patted his chest. "Well you became a little famous after you shouted FBI and flashed your ID. It was 'Arthur and Mr. Eames this' and 'Arthur and Mr. Eames that.' And then after that little bitch poisoned you, oh, that fooled no one, everyone saw her do it. I must say, I'd always wanted to have an intriguing adventure on a train. Now I'm having one, I'm not pleased."

"Hey," Anthony said from behind. "Hey, shh. What's that?"

Arthur didn't know which way to look, because he couldn't see Anthony to know where he was pointing.

 _Arthur!_ a thin voice called. Or maybe he imagined it? No: he heard it again.

Arthur looked toward the train. It still looked miles and miles away, though it was probably only about a quarter of one. The windows were little amber squares of warmth. At first he didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Then he saw a blue flash. And then another. 

From _atop_ the train.

"Arthur!" shouted the voice, from the distance. That blue light, waving above the train.

_Eames, EAMES, on top of the train, yes!_

"You're so fucking smart," Arthur rasped aloud. "Eames you're so fucking smart. Cell phones. Cell phones! Now!"

He tried to dig his phone out of his pocket. His fingers were still clumsy and felt too big but eventually me managed. Miranda had hers out, and turned on. Anthony had his, too. Arthur touched his screen and it came to life.

"Eames," he tried to yell back, but that was a bad idea because it felt like screaming through acid. Instead he just waved the cell phone madly.

"Over here!" Miranda yelled. "We're here!"

"Hey!" Nathan called.

"Oh," Eartha said, still clinging to Arthur, "are we saved?"

_Not yet, not yet. But soon._

At least, he thought so, hope swelling like a tide in him, until he heard the distinct, unmistakable sound of a gunshot. The blue light disappeared from sight.

"No, no," he whispered. "Jesus, no."

He started to run, almost toppling Eartha. He didn't get more than three steps when the train roared to life again. It started slowly, rumbling at first, and then building up to a roar. The amber squares of light shifted forward, backward, and then forward again.

And the train rolled on ahead, into the night.

** ** ** **

 

The Fenderlyn brothers weren't careful, like professionals were. They were blunt, brutal, inefficient and clumsy. That was Eames's professional opinion of their pain-causing technique. He could almost consider himself an expert on the receiving end. In his mind, if you found yourself bound and on the receiving end of someone else's violent tendencies more than twice, you were an expert. Criminal and thief he might be, manipulator too, but he prided himself on never having actually sat down and thought about how, precisely, to cause other people misery.

He also wasn't sure exactly what they wanted of him. There didn't seem to be an actual point to their violence. Giles had burned him a few times, of course, and Kenzie had whacked him with the gun and he knew he was as bruised and bloody as he felt, and a part of his mind kept whispering, _Jack is going to kill them._ He was vaguely horrified at this thought. No: _Arthur_ was going to kill them. Not Jack.

Arthur, who was somewhere out there and Ann was taking her sweet time coming back. About five minutes had passed; minutes that Eames could have spent trying to escape without her help, were it not for these two brutes.

Giles was flicking his lighter and so clearly considering setting Eames's hair on fire when they heard two voices arguing outside the door. One was clearly Michelle: strident, shaky, but still demanding. The other was Ann: icy, clipped, but also shaky.

' _You need to let me in there,_ ' Michelle's muffled voice came through the door. 

' _Go back your your mummy unless you want to get hurt,_ ' Ann replied.

 _'Hey,_ I _stole your precious key, I have rights._ '

The Fenderlyns stopped for a second and turned toward the door, eyebrows up in surprise.

' _You're too stupid to keep quiet,_ ' Ann scolded. ' _Get out of my sight and stop causing me problems._ '

' _Smart enough to get you what you wanted, even though you_ poisoned _me, you bitch._ '

Silence followed that, and shortly after, the door slid open. Ann came in and pulled it closed behind her. Eames caught the briefest glimpse of Michelle's worried face outside the door. 

Anger welled up inside of him. Clearly Ann had gotten the key to his cuffs, but she had employed the kid―the thief she claimed to hate―in order to do it. She'd made her steal, likely from Jack, and put her directly into danger for her own purposes. Eames wanted to go search for Arthur more than Ann did, and even he wouldn't have done such a thing.

 _And yet,_ he thought, almost against his will, _the little girl still managed to do it. She's a good thief._ It was professional pride, that was all. Good thieves with years of practice were abundant, but ones with natural talent were exceedingly rare.

Ann's face showed her clear surprise when she saw the Fenderlyns and what they were up to. But underneath that shock, Eames clearly saw her moment of vindication. _I want to see you hurt_ , her eyes said. She considered letting it go on. Would have, probably, if not for the fact that she had another agenda now.

"Get out," she told the two of them. "I need a moment of my own."

"We're not finished," Kenzie said. He sounded let down, strangely childish. Although, Eames's ears were ringing like hell, so maybe he was hearing wrong.

"You're finished now," she said. "I need him for something. By the way, if I were you, I'd stay away from Jack for a while. If he finds out about this, he won't be pleased."

 _Smart_ , Eames thought. _Keep Jack out of it, give us some time._ She was vindictive, but she was no idiot. He didn't care about her motivations, as long as she helped him get to Arthur.

"We'll see you later then," Giles said, almost friendly. He holstered his blood-streaked gun.

The two of them left the compartment as if they'd done nothing more interesting than watch a particularly violent movie. He mused that they probably did a lot of dream-work and dream-violence. People who did that tended to desensitize to the real world.

Ann made quick, silent work of uncuffing him. She showed no concern, no surprise for the blood caked on his head and face, the burns and bruises. Nor did he want any.

"I'm the one who hurt you," she said. "I'm the one who got to you, who made it hurt when you steal. I told you that I would, years ago, and I did."

Eames has guessed as much by now. And also, by this time, he didn't care. It was good to have final confirmation that he wasn't dying some lingering death, but he tucked that knowledge away. It was for later.

"Where did Arthur leave from, and where is Jack in relation to that?" he asked.

"Arthur left from the car after the lounge," she said. "Jack is in the engine room. But his guards are all along the hallways and I can't offer you any protection from them because they're under his direction to keep you locked up. I can't override that order; he made that clear. They'll probably run to alert him, so get outside fast, take the first door you can take."

"I've got a better idea than that," Eames said. "I need a vantage point."

"Whatever you have to do," she said.

He tested his legs out before opening the door. He felt achy, sore, a little dizzy and fuzzy. But his legs held him up and carried him forward and for now, that was all he needed. Eames grabbed his coat and slipped it on. It restricted his movement, but to go outside without it would be foolish. It wasn't for him, anyway; it was for Arthur.

He opened the door to find one of the guards holding Michelle at gunpoint. It was the last thing he would have expected, but Jack's determination to keep him aboard at all costs became obvious. 

It also fueled his rage. Not only was Jack thwarting him, leaving Arthur to his death while keeping Eames captive – he was using a kid to arrange this. And she'd already seen more shit in two days than most people saw in their entire lives. She was only fifteen, a nosy tyke with some stupid Pokeman keychain on her belt.

"Point that gun at me," Eames said. "Not at her. Come on, now. Obviously I am fair game, here. The Fenderlyn boys had their go. You have yours now. I'm a much bigger target." It was a sly way of saying _Pick on someone your own size,_ a bait that many hired thugs actually rose to. This guy didn't. "Are you really going to murder a child?" Eames said.

He saw the flicker in the guy's eyes, and he knew: this man had never pulled the trigger on someone before. If he thought his life was in danger, if he got startled badly enough, he might. But really he was just in for the money, and holding kids hostage probably hadn't been part of the original deal.

Eames held out his hand. "Come on, Michelle," he said. "You can go wait with your Mum and Dad. They're worried about their Dollymop."

She struggled a little against the large arm around her neck, her eyes watering, her cheeks red. As the seconds ticked by, Eames thought of Arthur and his cold hands, Arthur without a coat.

The guard finally shoved Michelle towards him and Ann, and aimed the gun at Eames instead.

Eames threw Michelle behind his back and launched himself at the guard. It took him two strides. He felt the man's breath go out of him as they landed, and the gun fired once, into the ceiling. Michelle screamed, and there came a muffled cry of surprise from the adjoining cars, but he tucked those peripheral sounds away. The throbbing in his head cleared and Eames pounded his elbow into the guard's face. His arm would hurt later, but for now, it everything just felt numb. 

He grabbed the gun and checked it. It was empty. So the goon had only had one shot, then. Eames pistol-whipped him with it for good measure, and dropped the useless gun, the better to have his hands free. Grabbing Michelle's hands, he pulled them around his waist and said, "Follow." He couldn't leave her among the wolves, either. His rescue of Arthur was also now an escort mission to her parents. 

Ann led the way. Eames followed, Michelle clinging to him, her face pressed into his back, her arms linked around him, hands clasped together at the front of his coat. He could hear her frightened breathing, like a small animal. She was a good little thief, but just a child, a baby girl. Even he hadn't seen this much violence at fifteen. 

They got to the restaurant car just as the two Fenderlyn brothers came in through the far door. The gunfire must have drawn their attention again. Ann kept moving forward, playing it cautiously, waiting to see how they would react to her now that she had freed their captive. 

Ann ordered the two brothers to move. Giles slapped her, hard enough to make her stumble. She was unarmed. Her vipers had turned against her. Or perhaps they'd been against her the whole time, and the charade was over.

But Eames wasn't chained up anymore. The closest thing within his reach were the shelves of liquor behind the bar. He grabbed two bottles and hurled them over Ann's shoulder. Neither bottle hit either men. Ann got the hint and crouched out of the way, moving until she was behind him and Michelle. Eames grabbed another two bottles and threw them. The second one hit Giles in the arm. He grabbed more and more, throwing quickly and wildly. 

"Fucker!" Kenzie grunted, as one bottle hit him in the chest.

The next bottle, this one a hefty, full Tanqueray gin, got Giles in the face. His nose seemed to burst under it. He fell, clutching his face and coughing. Payback for the cigar burns. When he doubled over, Eames shoved him down and grabbed his gun, stuffing it into his coat pocket. Not the safest place, but the quickest.

Behind Eames, Michelle screamed and he whirled around, another projectile in his hand. Another one of Jack's hired dogs lumbered toward them, a gun in hand. This goon was close enough that he could have even pulled the trigger if he'd gotten the chance. Eames nailed him in the forehead with a half-full litre of Jeagermeister. The glass shattered across the man's face and Eames held onto the broken bottle neck. 

There was no time yet to grab the gun with Kenzie still in the game, closing in on his back. He just turned again, expecting Kenzie to be close, and swung the remnants of the bottle. The broken edges caught Kenzie across the chest. He reacted by hunching over instinctively, his hand going slack on his gun. Eames grabbed the back of his neck and rammed his knee into Kenzie's face. The crunch of teeth was payback for the five minutes of pistol-whipping.

Eames swept down―Michelle still clinging to his back―and grabbed Kenzie's gun, too.

The door was behind him, and surely more guards would be chasing him down. He didn't know how many. There was a ladder to the top of his train, to the vantage point. He heard shouting, as of someone ( _Jack?_ ) barking orders ( _'Don't let him go, start it, start it, move!_ ') For a second, he almost thought that the train shifted under him.

He deliberated for all of a second before making the same decision he would have made in any battle: give your extra weapon to your six, not to the enemy who had suddenly shifted alliances. He pressed the gun into Michelle's hands.

"What?" she said. "no, no!" She tried to push it back to him.

"Just get to your Mum and Dad and give it to one of them. You." He turned to Ann. "Escort her to her parents. _Do not_ let me down. This girl will shoot you if you do. Do you understand?"

She glared at him, defiance in her eyes. 

"I'd rather not wait on your decision," he said, "and I'd rather Arthur not freeze to death while I wait, either."

She nodded once, curt. He had to take it. It was that, or let Arthur die. He couldn't be in two places at once.

So he turned, pulled the heavy door open, and went outside onto the icy steps. He turned to yank the door closed behind him, taking one last glance to make sure that everyone he had put down was staying down, and everyone he wanted upright and walking was doing so. Then he turned back to the cold, empty night.

The train offered little protection from the cold, though it did shield him from the wind. Pulling his gloves from his pocket and tugging them on, he trudged a few steps, eyes on the dark field. He tried to focus through the blind spots, the flares in his vision from the sudden dark, and probably also from having been knocked about a bit. He followed along the train, once in a while seeing faces peering at him from the amber windows, concerned and fascinated. At the third car, he came to the ladder to the top.

The rungs were bars of ice in his hands, not only bitingly cold, even through the gloves, but wet. The gloves stuck to them and he had to yank them off.

The top of the train was much colder, and the wind whipped him to the side, stung in his ears and his throat. From below, even under the idle of the train, he heard someone shouting orders again. It sounded like it came from another world.

Eames pulled his mobile out and turned it on. The blue glow of the screen wasn't exactly the flare he wished he had, but it would have to do. The snow had tapered off and there was no more white-out.

"ARTHUR!" he called, holding the cell phone up. 

He didn't hear a returning call. But then, he had probably destroyed Arthur's throat. The pain that hit him when he considered that was worse than the cold. 

"ARTHUR!" he called again.

From the distance came a woman's voice, thin and reedy: ' _Over here!_ ' Then a man's voice, shouting _'Hey!_ ' Eames looked in the direction of the voices, hoping that the wind wasn't skewing them.

Then he saw it, yards and yards away, in the field of snow: a tiny, blue, returning signal, waving like mad. Then, a few seconds later, another. And another. Three in all. He thought maybe the older couple didn't have their mobiles on them. Surely one of those belonged to Arthur. It had to.

With practiced intuition, Eames knew he wasn't alone on top of the train. It wasn't anything he heard or saw, just something he felt. He pulled Giles's gun from his coat pocket, turned, and aimed at the shadow of a man who was climbing up from the ladder.

Beneath him, the train shifted. Back first, and then forward. It stopped for a second and he steadied himself.

"Get the fuck back down here," the shadow said. Just another hired gun, probably. 

When the man hauled himself up to the top of the train, Eames heard rather than saw the gun in his hand. It clattered against the metal of the roof.

Eames fired his weapon, a warning shot. The figure started, as if he hadn't expected Eames to open fire.

Down the length of the train, two more guards were clambering to the top. This was a take-down mission, probably. Unlikely that Jack wanted to kill him, but he couldn't rule it out. Maybe he had reached that point.

It didn't matter, because just as the second hired guard got to his feet, the train did more than shift forward. It lurched to life under his feet, knocking him, and the other three men on top of the train, flat. Eames fell face down, clinging to the metal. He caught a glimpse of the fading blue lights in the distance.

Eames again took one second to consider his options: Jump off and go to Arthur and the others, with little chance of rescue, while abandoning the people on the train to their captors. Or get back into the train, stop it, and try to reverse it.

His decision was mostly a practical one: the train was the only thing that would actually save them. He could no more throw Michelle and the others to the wolves than Arthur could let civilians freeze to death in a snow storm.

He belly-crawled forward, the wind rippling over his back. He had to get close to the engine room before getting back down, and he didn't have much time. The train was picking up speed.

The movies made it look exciting and somewhat easy to run across the top of a moving train. In fact, Eames was terrified and had to crawl most of the way, even the train wasn’t going that fast. It shifted slowly around a turn and he gripped onto a metal bar across the top. The turn was sluggish, but it angled the entire body of the train, and the top was so icy that he felt his legs slide across to the southern side, opposite to the ladder. His legs dangled over the side while the wind ripped at his feet and tore at his trousers. 

"Oh fuck," he whispered, "fuck, fuck." 

When the train straightened out, he pulled his legs back up so he was lying parallel on top once more. Then he started pulling himself towards the train's forward motion. He didn't know where the ladder was anymore. He would have to find the edge of the roof, in the fucking dark, and slide down far enough to feel for rungs. _Fuck_ , he was going to die.

Even if he found the ladder, he didn't know how he would make it to the fucking door, and then open it. Or even if the door would open when the train was moving.

It was entirely dark and he didn't know where the other men were either, the ones who were on top of the train with him.

Sweating even in the icy wind, he pulled himself forward until he came into contact with another warm, moving body. He punched at it just because it was there, because they were chasing him and they had guns. His fist came in contact with ribs, a shoulder, spine, head.

"Stop, stop!" the man cried. And something that sounded like "I don't want to die!"

"Then let me fucking pass," Eames said. Though he didn't know if he made himself clear over the roar of the train and the wind.

But the other man, the hired gun that Eames couldn't see, just kept clinging to the roof. If he did move, he'd probably fall.

"Let me live," the man said, a bit louder this time, "and I'll help you, I promise, I promise!"

The voice seemed to be getting louder. Eames wasn't sure why until he felt the wind against his back die down bit by bit. No, the voice wasn't growing louder: the train's rumble was getting softer. It was slowing down.

Eames stopped punching the other guy and held on to the top with both hands. As the train slowed to a stop, the momentum whipped his legs off to the side. He felt himself skidding across the roof. This time he slid off until his hips hit the edge of the roof. His mind went blank and he scrambled for purchase. At the last second, he grabbed onto a metal ridge and held on until his hands burned. When the train stopped completely, he pulled himself up again, arms shaking. He could still hear the other man a meter or so away, pleading for help. All the fight had gone out of Eames. The two of them lay there for a second, hanging in, panting like mad. The other guy was in his way.

"Move," Eames said. "I will shove you right the fuck off. _Move._ "

"I can't," the goon said. "I can't, I can't, I can't move."

Slowly, Eames got to his feet. His legs shook with the lingering sensation of the rumbling train, and with adrenaline. In fact, everything was shaking. His eyes stung with cold, his chest hurt, his entire head throbbed. He tried to shake it off. There was still work to do.

"Let me step over you," he said. "Don't touch me or I'll break your skull."

"Right," said the man. "Get me down from here."

"Fuck off," Eames said, once he was clear of the clinging body. Fucker got himself up there, he could get himself down. And there were two more men atop the train somewhere, too. 

His eyes adjusted to the dim light that came from below, the little squares of amber cast on the snowy ground from the windows. He saw only one more body clinging to the top. He looked to the side of the train he'd climbed out from, the northern side, and saw those window-lights reflected on the snow. They looked like a picture of heaven.

He looked to the other side, south, where his legs had been dangling off, and saw nothing. Absolutely fucking _nothing_ but a steep cliff-drop. It explained where the other hired guard had went.

The involuntary moan that came from his own mouth sounded weak and pathetic. He took two steps backwards and went to his knees. Shaking, almost wetting his trousers, he crawled backwards toward the safe edge, the one that dropped off into the snow, not into the fucking _void_. He let his feet dangle a few inches over, feeling around for the top of the ladder. His arms shook so badly that if he went any further, he wouldn’t be able to hold on anymore. He’d slip completely off.

Finally, the toe of his boot hit the top metal rung. He breathed a sigh of relief that sounded more like a sob and began to ease himself down.

"Where are you going?" the man closest to him yelled. "Fuck, don't leave me!"

"Don't look down the other side," Eames said. "The ladder's here. Come down after me. Don't make me kill you. You owe me." Maybe, maybe not, but it was a clear enough survival tip that he thought could earn him some gratitude.

He was panting like a frightened animal by the time he reached the bottom rung. He didn't even feel cold anymore. Who the fuck knew that trains took turns like that, that close to fucking _cliffs_? What if the train driver timed the turn wrong or something? If he'd known about that kind of shit, he would have never gotten on this goddamned thing. He was never doing another train tour again.

His feet hit the snow and he was glad for it, so thrilled to feel the ground beneath him, the snow wicking up the cuffs of his trousers. When he got to the door, he vaulted up the stairs and pulled it open, flinging himself inside and pressing back against the wall. He was in the restaurant car again. The surprised looks he got from the passengers told him what he must look like: half-frozen and half-mad. He probably looked exactly like a man who had ridden on the top of a train with his legs hanging off, as it went past a motherfucking cliff.

The passengers were huddled into booths and around tables in the dining car, watching him with some mixture of fear and hope. He didn't know who they thought he was. Perhaps they thought him the kind of man to come back inside the train to try to help them, instead of going to rescue his partner. Or perhaps they thought nothing at all of him other than that he was some crazy, daredevil secret agent. He was none of these things. He was just some ex-military criminal who was in a bad spot.

Catching his breath, and trying to shut away his useless adrenaline, he reasoned that there were a lot less guards than the first time. He'd taken at least five of them out. Two were stuck on the roof and weren't likely to come chasing after him. He'd keep his eyes open for the Fenderlyn brothers. ' _Keep your specs peeled,_ ' Arthur's voice whispered in his head, giving him a moment of fortitude, and such a strange mix of longing and guilt that his over-wrought system almost couldn't bear it. He wiped tears from his face that were probably not from the sting of cold air-- though he couldn't tell―and resolutely moved forward.

"Mr. Eames. Mr. Eames. Hey."

He turned when a hand touched his shoulder, and saw Daniel gripping him, and still holding onto the gun. He looked quickly for Michelle and found her sitting at one of the restaurant booths with her mother Helen. She was watching him with tired, gleaming eyes.

"You did it," he said to her.

"Yes," Daniel answered for her. "She gave me this gun and, well. I don't know, I did my best to defend this car. We outnumber them. I think that they realize this now."

"Ann?" Eames said. He knew this request for information probably didn't make sense, but Daniel just nodded.

"She went running up to the locomotive part of the train, or whatever they call it. She wanted to stop it from moving."

Of course she did. Ann didn't want to leave Arthur behind; he was her agenda. Ann had stopped the train, somehow. Maybe she had reasoned with Jack. Either way, that was the direction he needed to go in.

"Can trains go in reverse?" he asked.

Daniel looked surprised, but quickly gave it some thought. "I think so," he said. "If they haven't killed the conductor, you can probably find some sort of button to make it go backwards."

"It's called a reverser lever," Michelle said. "Trains like this have forward, neutral, reverse and air-brakes."

Eames stared at her, surprised.

"Umm," she said, "I googled it before I came here."

"Oh, yes," he said. "Yes, brilliant." She smiled wanly. Eames looked to Helen, who wasn’t smiling. She just looked pale, tired, and about ten years older than she had. She kept her arm wrapped around her daughter. "Hey," Eames said to Michelle. "I should probably tell you I disapprove of what you did. But you saved my life. And when I get the train back where it was, and I find the survivors out there, you’ll have saved their lives. It was brave of you to get that key."

Michelle smiled a little wider and nodded in acknowledgment.

"Don’t ever do anything like that again," Eames said, glancing toward Helen. Now, she looked a little bit proud.

"Whatever," Michelle said.

"Right, whatever," Eames said. He turned back to Daniel, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Can I ask you to hold down this car again? I don’t have anyone else who’d do it."

"I’ll do my best," Daniel said. "Are we going back for them?"

" _Yes._ " He didn’t mean to answer so emphatically, but there was no way that they weren’t. 

"The bad guys have got to be in the, the driving room, or whatever it’s called, where the conductor is. They can’t have killed him - unless they know how to operate a train? But that takes years of…"

"I’ll see when I get there," Eames said. "And thanks," he added over his shoulder, as he made his way out of the car, toward the front of the train.

He met no resistance until the third car down. If there were more hired guns, they were hiding out somewhere, or maybe all protecting the control room. Three cars down, one of the Silver Class passenger cars; he was almost to the control room, when he ran once again into Giles Fenderlyn.

Giles seemed just as startled to see him, as he came out from one of the rooms. "Thought you’d be dead by now," he said, drawing his gun. He blocked Eames’s path.

Eames came at him with a straight-punch before Giles even got to raise the pistol. Giles’s already broken nose splintered again under his fist. Eames finished him off with an uppercut to the jaw before he hit the floor. He took the gun, checked that it was loaded, and briefly considered shooting Giles in the leg. Instead, he took Giles’s belt off and trussed him hog-style, arms bound to his ankles. It took him about a minute - precious time he really couldn’t afford, but he had no other choice. Still, to this day, he didn’t like unnecessary violence. Giles was out of play for a while and unarmed. He couldn’t shoot a man while he was down and he didn’t have time to fuck around.

 _Arthur would shoot him,_ his mind supplied without his permission. _No mercy, that’s Arthur. Hand a man over for torture._

He told his out-of-control subconscious to shut the fuck up, and kept moving forward. He heard Ann’s voice before he even got there, shrill and with an hysterical edge to it that he hadn’t heard before. He couldn’t make out her words. Then, following her voice came Jack’s, murmuring something.

The door to the control room was heavy, and had a slide for a card-key. Eames just banged on it with his fist and said, "Open up!"

The voices inside went quiet. After a moment the door slid open, revealing Jack, his blue eyes narrowed and hateful. The look only lasted a moment before it changed to the wide-open look of feigned innocence he’d been giving Eames since the beginning of the trip. Except, he was also holding a pistol.

"Darling, I told you to stay." Again, his face changed, just as quickly. Anger this time. Childlike, almost. "Who hurt you?" he asked, reaching towards Eames’s face.

Eames pulled away from his hand. "Your two boys, after you left me chained up and unable to defend myself." He pushed past Jack, into the control room. Ann stood in the corner, leaning back against the lip of the control counter. Tear tracks streaked her red, blotchy face. She clutched her purse with both hands, her nails leaving little crescents in the leather. He wondered what she was keeping in her purse that she needed to grip it so tightly.

The train driver was pressed up against the controls opposite her, frightened and weary. He was an old man with a white beard and blue eyes.

"Can you make it go in reverse?" Eames asked him.

"No," Jack said. "We’re not…"

"Fuck you, Jack!" Ann shrieked. "You shit, you _shit_ , you said he wouldn’t be hurt, you said you wouldn’t hurt him!"

"He left the train on his own." He turned to the Eames and said, "I stopped the train for you. When I heard you’d gone outside, I stopped it. How could you do that to me? Why would you leave the train?"

"You know why," Eames said. "Now reverse this fucking thing, Jack, or so help me…"

Jack turned to the conductor, pointing his gun in the old man’s face and releasing the safety. "Forward," he said.

"Reverse!" Ann shrieked.

Jack turned before Eames even saw him move, and backhanded Ann, still gripping the gun. Eames heard her jaw pop. She fell to the side, clutching the back of the driver’s chair.

As had happened on occasion, Eames didn’t even realize that he had lifted someone off the ground until after the fact. One second he was looking at Jack, and in the next, he had Jack’s shirt collars bunched in his fists. Jack’s feet dangled over the floor as Eames pressed him up against the door. It occurred to him, vaguely, that he might be pushing his luck.

He put Jack down slowly, almost gently, still breathing hard. He could not get past his own surprise. How hard he’d struck Ann, his sister; actually his partner. Eames didn’t have his entire memory back from the time he’d known them, but he would never have imagined this. Was it a new development? Did Jack regularly hurt other people? Was his abuse a general thing, or was it situational? He couldn’t remember. His fingers spasmed with wanting to punch him in the face. 

Those same fingers also remembered the contours of this man’s shoulders, neck, and face.

"Christ," Eames said. "Reverse the train, it’s not just Arthur out there, you fucking prick."

"No," Jack hissed, shoving his hands away. "You don’t get him. He doesn’t get to keep you. He sold you out, he hunted you, and _you hated him too_ , you would have thrown him away when I knew you, like he deserves. You would have left him to die." He pulled himself away from Eames, red-faced, gritting his teeth. He didn’t look like the put-together, icily handsome man he’d been on that first night, or even a few minutes ago. He looked like something out of a nightmare. "Fuck him, he doesn’t get to live, and if you keep this up, neither do you."

The gunshot made everyone jump. The train-driver cried out in fear. Eames instantly checked himself for the entrance or exit wound that he wouldn’t feel for another few seconds, for the oozing blood, the spreading stain anywhere on his body. There wasn’t one.

Jack fell to his knees. He looked up at Eames and said, "What? What?" His hands grasped weakly at Eames’s legs. Blood wicked out across his shirt from a hole in his shoulder, maybe close enough that it had gotten his lung, too. Eames stepped away from him in horror.

But he stepped forward again when Jack started to fall. The boy he’d been fourteen years ago didn’t want him to get hurt. That boy cried out as he tried to catch the body of the man he loved. Hands that didn’t feel like his own eased Jack gently onto the ground. Jack coughed twice, still alive.

"Reverse," Ann said. Her words were slurred. 

Eames looked over his shoulder at her, stunned. She coughed, and spat blood onto the floor. She spat again, fragments of one of her molars this time. Her cheek was white, where Jack had struck her with the gun. In an hour or so, it would be black. Her purse was still clutched in one hand, now open.

His first order of business was to relieve her of the gun. He took it from her cold, shaking fingers. She let it go willingly. Then he looked back to where the train driver was standing, braced against the wall, white-faced and in a panic.

"There are people stranded a few kilometers back," Eames said. "They’re going to die. Can you reverse the train? No one here is going to hurt you."

The train driver swallowed hard, licked his lips, and nodded his head.

"Good," Eames said. "Take it to where the train was stopped earlier. Only a few minutes’ ride, right?"

Another nod.

"I’ll get these two out of here. Just do your job." He reached down and slid his arms under Jack’s shuddering body. "Get the door," he said to Ann. She didn’t move. "The _door_ , Ann," he ordered.

She jumped, and moved sluggishly, in a daze, toward the door. She was clearly in shock.

Eames lifted Jack and took him out of the control room. As soon as they were gone, Ann having closed the door behind her, the train shifted again, backwards this time.

Eames found an empty compartment in Silver Class and took Jack into it. At least he could put him down on a bed and leave him there. He didn’t understand what he was doing, or what he felt. Four months of his memory, gone for so long. A man he’d forgotten all about but had loved, in some selfish, childish way. Eames didn’t know who Jack had been back then, but probably not a violent, desperate, sociopath. Probably not someone who would throw random people out to die in a blizzard, and break his sister’s face.

He looked over his shoulder again at Ann, after he put Jack down. Her eyes were empty. She stumbled backwards against the opposite wall and sagged down until she was sitting. She didn’t stop there, but continued to fold herself in half, hands gripping her hair. She shuddered in silence for just a second, and then the cry that tore out of her was an inhuman thing. She wailed, senseless, throwing her head back against the wall and pounding her fists on her legs. There were no words to her cries, just half-formed vowels, the sounds of a wounded animal. 

Eames felt all his hair stand on end as he watched her.

 _What monsters this business made of them,_ he thought.

He thought of Mal, at the end of her sanity. Setting Cobb up for death, or a lifetime of hell. He thought of Cobb, after Mal had died. He considered how Cobb had, in fact, set them all up on the Fischer job, had sent them all under without warning them that they could lose their minds in limbo. Not even a consideration for Arthur, his steadfast partner.

_This is what it does to you. Insanity and betrayal around every corner._

Finally, he thought of Arthur, Glock-wielding Arthur who did this work because he loved it, because he lived for it. He thought of his own hands around Arthur’s throat, squeezing.

Ann’s screaming tapered off into desolate, lost whimpers. She was a liability, a loose end. Because his gut feeling told him to, he plucked her purse from her lap. She allowed him to do this without a fight, looking up at him with watery, blank eyes. He didn’t have to dig far to find the little, metal vials she kept inside there, ones he was so familiar with. Those quick-acting sedatives that Arthur was so good with. She probably even had the one she’d used on Arthur, when she touched him.

He left the compartment, opened one of the vials, and tossed it through the door. Then he slid the door shut behind him. It would take care of them for a while, at least.

 _What monsters,_ he thought again, as he left the compartment. 

The train moved backwards.

** ** ** **


	7. Chapter 7

12 - My Love I Am The Speed Of Sound

 

Arthur couldn’t carry her much further. His thoughts moved like melting ice and didn’t make much sense, but he knew he was slowing down. Decisions such as "move forward" seemed too complicated. He was losing energy pretty fast - that at least made sense. 

"I can’t do it," said Francis, from behind him. "I can’t go anymore."

"Just a little," Arthur said.

Miranda was still helping Francis walk, and Anthony was still helping him carry Eartha. The snow had died down, but the wind had picked up. There was no shelter. His shirt clung to him, his fingers dug into Eartha’s coat, seeking body heat. He couldn’t keep carrying her, but she was keeping him warm. He’d hoped that they could at least huddle up against the train, but now that was gone, too. They may as well have been walking through the void. Once in a while, Miranda would light up her cell phone and shine it on the snow, looking for footprints, as Arthur had instructed her. He knew somehow this didn’t make sense, because the footprints would have already been buried by wind-blown drifts. But he couldn’t think of anything else to suggest.

And then, suddenly, the snow dropped off a few inches. Arthur stumbled so hard that it took Anthony gripping him around the waist to prevent him from falling, and spilling Eartha all over the ground with him. She gasped against his neck and held on tighter.

"Tracks," Anthony said. "Look! Right here, the train tracks!"

"Oh, thank god," Miranda said. "Thank god, we can follow them!"

"Can’t," Arthur said. He sounded muddled and slurred, even to himself. "No, we’re done. Done for tonight."

"That’s crazy," she said. Her hand came down on his shoulder and she shook him. "You’re not making sense. Look, we got here, the next stop can’t be…"

"It’s miles away," Anthony said, before Arthur got the chance to. 

"We don’t need the train station," she said. She sounded hysterical. "Just, just someone to help us! There has to be something!"

"We don’t know what’s ahead," Arthur said. He and Anthony, by mutual agreement, gently set Eartha on her feet. "We don’t know," Arthur went on. "Tigers. Siberian. Tigers."

"Oh, Arthur," Eartha said. "You sound really bad. I’ve made you so tired."

"No, I’m okay."

Now, he felt another hand on his shoulder. Anthony, probably. Too dark to see anyone. 

"You’re not okay," Anthony said. "None of us are right now. But we do have to stop."

"Tony…" Miranda said.

"Listen to me," he said, "I know what I’m saying. We can’t expend much more energy. You need the glucose in your brain to survive. Walking all night can and will deplete it. Eventually we’ll all get so strung out on hypothermia that we’ll make some really bad decisions. Let’s stop, while we’ve still got our heads together."

"Huddle on the tracks," Arthur suggested. "Snow up on either sides, like a shelter. From the wind. Am I making sense?"

"What?" Anthony asked. 

"He says," Eartha said, "that if we get down on the train tracks, the snow on either side will shield us from the wind. We can huddle and we’d better do it fast." She put her gloved hands on Arthur’s face again. "You’re making sense," she said, "you’re just making it in french."

"Oh. That. Well, dreamwalking and Ann being there, like an inception to the old days, like fourteen years ago. She taught me, mostly."

"Now you’re not making sense," she said. "Now come on, we do as Arthur says. I can’t ask him to go any further and I know Frank can’t keep going either."

"What if a train comes and hits us?" Miranda said.

"We’ll feel the tracks vibrate," Anthony said. "Come on. It’s a good plan."

Arthur felt hands on his shoulder now, turning him around and guiding him downwards. The world tilted, and was suddenly lit up by a blue glow. Miranda’s cell phone again. The blue streaked in front of his eyes and went dark for a second. When it came back, there was an arm braced across his back and his ass was just about hitting the cold ground.

"…Since you don’t have a coat," Anthony was saying. "And then we get Eartha and you in the center. Then Francis. Randy and I can link arms around you as much as possible. Okay?"

"Yeah, okay," Arthur said. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was agreeing to, but it sounded like the right thing.

"How are you hands?" Anthony asked.

"Pretty numb." 

"Okay, then you’ll stick your hands into my coat. How about your feet?"

"Waterproof shoes," Arthur said.

"Good. And everyone else?"

"We brought our hiking boots," Francis said. 

"Mine hurt," Miranda said. "They ache. Like from frostbite."

"Can you move your toes?" 

"Yes," she said, "but it hurts when I do."

"Then you can still feel them. Okay. Everyone down."

Arthur felt people settling behind him, in front of him, and to his sides. He couldn’t tell who was who, at first. Gloved hands, and arms with heavy coats on them went around his shoulders. Someone settled across from him and he was pressed backwards into another warm body. It felt like heaven.

 _I might live,_ he thought. He hadn’t stopped to really consider dying, until then. Not until he could rest. It was still possible that they could all die out here. The train could be gone for good, or at least until morning, which was as good as forever, from where he was sitting. They might make it another few hours, but the coldest part of the night was yet to come. 

Still. They _could_ live. If the train came back, or another one came along. Or, maybe even if the train that Eames was on reached an area where there was cell phone service. Then everyone would call for rescue and they would be found. Yes, Eames was on the train and he would send a rescue back.

The thought of Eames on the train, and of the train going away and not coming back, snapped the tiny threads that had been holding him together. His hands hurt, his face hurt, his tongue felt thick and dry. His throat was starting to actually throb with pulses of fiery pain. Eames’s hands had done that, and the cold air had burned it raw.

"You did so well," Eartha said. She was beside him. "We would be dead by now. Well, at least Francis and me. If you hadn’t come after us, you know. Shh."

She put her hand to the back of his head and tugged his face into her coat. Almost instantly, some feeling came back to his cheeks and his chin. Even his nose burned. She smelled like cold, frost, wet wool, and some underlying scent of perfume from the seventies, something that aunts and grandmothers wore. He almost wanted to grab onto her, but he could only reach her hair and he remembered that it was a wig. And anyway, someone else was grabbing his hands and pulling them into their coat. He dug his fingers into the warmth. Felt like a woman’s ribs.

"Don’t you get handsy," Miranda said. "My husband is sitting right there."

He laughed, a little. It sounded more like a sob, which he didn’t mean.

Francis, he guessed, was behind Eartha. Miranda and her husband on the outside of everyone, with their arms linked and their heads ducked down. Their coats acted like a makeshift tent. Hiding out on the rails; that had been a good idea.

It was dark, but he was pretty sure his eyes were closed anyway. He even felt some of the tension ease out of his shoulders. It was nice to stop and rest. It was really nice to let someone else be vigilant. 

A scratchy hand petted his hair and rubbed fingers into his scalp.

 _Baba Yaga_ , he thought, briefly forgetting where he was.

"Oh, no," Eartha said, bringing him back to the present, "I’m not your mama. Is she still living?"

 _Oh, shit,_ Arthur thought, and laughed silently at himself. He hadn’t even realized he’d spoken it aloud, and felt instantly mortified. God, she thought he was calling for his mama. Which, now that he thought of it, was a hell of a lot better than letting her think he’d been calling her Baba Yaga. Because maybe not everyone would take kindly to that.

"Umm," he said, "yes, my mother’s alive." _Somewhere._

"Well, then you’ll get to see her again soon," Eartha said.

"Sure." _Not likely._

"She’s probably real proud of you, being a special agent and helping people."

"Mmm," Arthur agreed. _Haven’t heard from her since college graduation. Plus I’m a criminal._

"You should call her when…"

"Wait," Arthur said. He un-burrowed his face from her coat and sat up straight. He wasn’t even sure yet what he heard, if anything.

"I hear it too," Anthony said.

Arthur pulled his hand from the inside of Miranda’s coat and felt around on the ground. This was dangerous as hell; he was getting his hand wet again, which was one thing you never, ever did once you got it dry. Finally he put his hand onto one of the spikes in the track. It burned like shards of ice going through each finger.

But it was also vibrating. And the vibrating was turning into rumbling.

And the silence was turning into noise.

The noise turned into a train whistle.

"Off the tracks," he said. "Everyone up."

They hustled up, clumsy, tripping and flailing. Arthur’s legs burned with returning blood. The cold air that hit him felt like a fist. Moving from the huddle was like pitching himself into the second circle of hell, buffeted by relentless, icy winds. He tripped over the snowbank, righted himself, and grabbed whoever was closest to him to pull away from the tracks.

"Come on, back up, back up," Anthony was saying, urging everyone back. 

"Cell phones," Arthur said. "Everyone, light up." He dug his out of his back pocket with burning cold hands, and touched it on. 

Two more phones lit up on either side of him: Anthony’s and Miranda’s. 

"I can’t believe it," Miranda said. "I can’t believe we’re saved."

Yes, they had to be, this time. It had to be Eames. Jack wouldn’t have reversed the train for them. Ann might have, maybe. If she even knew. 

But no, it hadn’t happened like that. It was Eames. He knew it; it was the only thing that made sense. Eames had commandeered the train and was coming back for him.

The cold settled into his chest once again, without the shelter of the snow banks and the makeshift tent of coats, and bodies. He thought he could actually feel his temperature plummet a few vital degrees at the sudden change. His blood pressure dropped, too; he could feel that as well. Getting up so fast hadn’t been the best idea, but had also been his only option. That, or get hit by the train, the train whose light he could now see. Then, a second later, he couldn’t see it because his legs wouldn’t hold him anymore.

"Oh, hang on, hang on," Anthony said, grabbing for him.

Then the roar of the train and the squeal of brakes shut out any other voices, and Anthony wasn’t quick enough to catch him.

 _But we’re okay now_ , Arthur thought. His heart thudded in his ears and there seemed to be a lot of concern over him. But it didn’t matter. He felt nice, sort of. Warm. Like he was floating. Even the train went silent.

** ** ** **

Since the train had left and come back, and Eames had no idea how far Arthur might have had to go to find the others, he took about thirty seconds to run to their compartment and grab Arthur’s coat. Adrenaline was pushing him now, and intuition and years of field experience made his decisions for him.

On his way back to the dining car, he banged on every compartment door, and herded everyone he found into that one area. There were hundreds of people, and they were crammed in, frightened and murmuring.

The train whistle blew, and a few moments later, it slowed to a stop. Arthur and the others had to be somewhere close.

"All right," he said, his voice carrying above the din, "all right, settle down." He didn’t have a hell of a lot of time to wait for their attention. Fortunately, they seemed willing to listen to him. 

"Right," he went on, "it’s hard to know who to trust. Fortunately the train driver is all right. Many people on the staff were working for the ones who took over the train. A few of them are gone now, but probably not all of them. One of their two henchmen is missing, name of Kenzie Fenderlyn. You’ve seen him. He’s small, dark hair, brown eyes. Broken nose, now. The other, Giles, is unconscious and locked up, but could still be a threat. Also broken nose. They might be armed. You outnumber them, but _do not_ put yourselves in danger. Clear?"

Assenting murmurs were his answer. He didn’t have time to wait for anything more, and had to trust that a group of tourists would rise to the challenge of caring for themselves and each other. It had happened before.

"I’ll need someone to come with me," he said. He didn’t expect a lot of volunteers, nor did he want many.

"I’ll go," Michelle said, standing up and trying to peer over the crowd.

"Like hell," Eames said, when he saw her little body shoving people out of the way to get to him. He would maybe find time to appreciate her offer later. But not now.

Her father Daniel was already shrugging on his coat. He handed the gun to Helen, who took it willingly.

"Right," Eames said to Helen. "Stand in the center and watch both doors. Keep your eye on the door to the outside, too, because there was one more fellow on the roof and I don’t know if he’s still there or not. Likely not. Mind you don’t shoot us when we come back through. Ann is still alive, all right? As far as I know, they both are. I’ve locked them up as well as I could, but no guarantees. The car is crowded, so don’t open fire unless you really think you need to. But if you need to, then do so."

"Got it," Helen said. 

Eames turned to Daniel. "All set?"

Daniel offered him a small smile. "Tally-ho?"

"Right. That’ll do."

The passengers cleared a path to the door, and once again, Eames went out into the night. 

"Shit," Daniel said from behind him. "Mr. Eames, this is bad."

"Please don’t remind me." _Arthur knows what to do,_ he tried to convince himself. _It’s been about thirty minutes. That’s survivable if he got shelter._ Arthur had survived in the elements for a lot longer than thirty minutes, and he’d been in worse condition. He could do this.

Even so, Eames’s heart seemed to stutter to a stop when he saw two small lighted cell phones waving about, five or so meters down the train. Only two phones, and he could already hear voices that sounded concerned, even urgent. He did not hear Arthur’s voice.

He was running before he even realized it, barely aware of Daniel huffing and stumbling behind him. Their only light was from the train’s windows, but the small party of survivors ( _survivors,_ his mind urged,) was close enough to the train that he could make out their shapes before he got there.

"Over here!" a man’s voice called. Probably Dr. Neilson or whatever his name was. He just ran, pushing through the snow until he was nearly on top of them.

 _Arthur, Arthur_ , he wanted to call, but he took in the entire situation, first. Five people. Two elderly, the man clearly exhausted and clutching his chest. Not good. The elderly woman holding onto him, exhausted but alert. They were both dressed warmly. Two adults, also dressed warmly, also alert. They were struggling to hold up the fifth person, Arthur, clearly unconscious, and just in his shirt and slacks.

"Who’s worse?" Eames addressed the entire group.

"I’m okay," the elderly man said. "Pills, just need my pills."

"You take him," Eames instructed Daniel, pointing to the elderly man. 

"Right." 

He’d given the only doctor to the old man, and maybe that was the right decision and maybe not but it looked like that fellow was around the corner from an actual heart attack, and Arthur was young, and strong.

It also freed Eames up to grab Arthur from the two people who were trying to actually hold him upright, but were jostling him around and you never, you _never_ handled someone that roughly when they were cold like this. 

They babbled at him about how they didn’t want to put him in the wet snow, and they’d huddled for warmth and he was okay, he had just been okay moments ago, right before Eames got there he’d been standing up and signaling like the rest of them and then down he went.

Eames checked for a pulse, found one, and carefully, carefully picked him up.

"Back on the train, everyone," he said. "Go and help those three."

Daniel walked ahead with the elderly couple, assisting both of them until the younger couple, Nelsons or Nilsons or whoever, took over aiding the woman.

Eames followed behind with Arthur, walking what felt like the longest five meters of his life.

Hell, he thought, might just have been nearly slipping on the steps and almost toppling backward with Arthur, which might have stopped his heart. Stopped both their hearts, he reckoned.

But the heat and noise of humanity hit him as soon as he was back in the train. They crowded around him, and fuck, the situation was so delicate, he heard himself yelling _Back off, back off!_ and they must have done, because he found a cleared off, plush, red bench up against the wall. As if he were handling glass, he put Arthur down on it and finally took an actual look.

His lips were blue, his hands were white but not puffy. He was breathing. He was shivering, which was a good sign. His shirt was wet and Eames started to carefully, but quickly, undo the buttons. He was aware of the warm press of many people at his back, crowding him, crowding them both and again he shouted at everyone to get away, move back. As one, they did.

Arthur opened his eyes just as Eames was sliding the wet shirt from his shoulders.

"You’re all right," he said, before Arthur made any sudden moves or freaked out.

"Eames?" His voice was slurred, faint, and sounded like a scratched record.

The ring of bruises around his neck stood out shockingly against the rest of his pale skin. Eames hated himself, and for a moment, just hated everyone and everything. "Right here. Don’t move."

"Are we inside?"

"We’re inside. Don’t move, all right?"

"I’m okay," Arthur said. 

Eames pulled his shirt the rest of the way off and wrapped his long, black coat around him in its place, then laid him back down on the bench.

Arthur’s eyes seemed to ease into focus. "You look like shit," he said.

That, finally, sounded like Arthur talking, and not the cold. "Sit-rep?" Eames prompted.

"Eggs in the coffee," Arthur said. 

It was babble, but it was _Arthur_ babble and he took it as a good sign.

"I’d like to move you, but I’m afraid to. You were unconscious."

"Got up too fast," he said. "Blood pressure. Not… I’m okay."

"You’re not going go to into cardiac arrest? Because if you do, Arthur, I swear I’ll…" He couldn’t think of any threats to use even in jest. He’d already hurt Arthur enough, the thought of doing it again made him ill.

"I’m all right. Eartha."

This was babble that he didn’t understand. "What’s that?"

"Lady. Eartha. She all right?"

"She’s fine. They’re all fine, let’s worry about them later."

Arthur was struggling to sit up whether Eames wanted him to or not. The color hadn’t even returned to his face yet but it drained even further once he was upright. And the panic and mayhem, the noise and chaos of the room wasn’t the right environment for this. He’d made it to the car without hurting Arthur, and he’d make it another few meters to their compartment, where he could assure himself, at least, that Arthur would live. Where he could see to it.

He picked him up again and made his way through the crowd, who once again moved aside easily to let them by.

The silence inside their compartment cleared the fog from Eames’s head. It also drained some of the adrenaline. Ann’s shattered mirror, still streaked with his blood, lay in the corner. The bed he’d been chained to also had splashes and spatters of his blood on the coverlet. Still, he kicked the cover off with his foot and put Arthur onto the bed. 

Arthur came around again when Eames tucked the blanket around him and got to work taking his shoes off. He just said Eames’s name, assured himself that’s who he was with, then settled back down, shivering.

Eames unlaced Arthur’s boots, thankful as he often was that Arthur was a practical man who counted on quality. The boots were waterproof and had probably spared him all of his toes. He took off his socks (dry, but cold) and wrapped his hands around first one foot, then the other. He slid his hands up Arthur’s cold ankle, rubbing gently. Arthur hissed in a breath at the returning heat. 

"Sorry," Eames said. It was a good sign though, that there was no lasting damage.

With practiced hands, he undid Arthur’s trousers and slid them off, along with his pants. Arthur allowed this as he always did, though without his usual intent.

Eames was just putting another blanket over him when someone knocked at the door.

"It’s only me," Daniel said from the outside. 

Yes, a doctor about now would be a good thing. Eames slid the door open and let him in. Daniel was holding a mug with a straw, which he handed to Eames.

"How is he?" he asked.

"Says he’s fine." Eames stood back and let Daniel hover over Arthur. 

Daniel was thorough, checking his hands, his feet, his lips, his pulse. He asked Arthur a few questions, to see if he answered them coherently. 

"Who was out there with you?" Daniel said.

"Anthony and Miranda. Francis and Eartha. Is she okay?"

"They’re all fine," Daniel said. "Well done, Arthur." He turned back to Eames. "That’s decaf tea with sugar. Get that into him, all right?"

"Yes, of course. He’s all right, you think?"

"Keep an eye on him, and come get me if… Well, Mr. Eames. I’ve got to say this." He looked uncomfortable for a moment, then got into some kind of doctor mode, distant and professional. 

Eames braced himself. _It could go either way,_ he prepared himself to hear, or something like it.

Instead, Daniel gestured to the marks around Arthur’s throat. "If you’re having an episode of PTSD," he said, "and you fall asleep and suffer another one of these night terrors… I’m saying this to both of you, because you’re adults. Mr. Eames, can you trust yourself not to hurt him? Arthur, are you aware of the symptoms, and are you in any shape to call for help?"

Eames fought down his initial reaction, which would have been defensive and illogical. It killed him that Daniel was right. That it was probably better, safer, for someone else to see Arthur through this.

"He’s quite right," Eames said.

"No," Arthur said. "I get it, concern, thank you. I’m okay. We’re good."

"Will it be all right if I come by to check on you?" Daniel asked. "As a physician."

"Arthur," Eames said, "I really think you should consider…"

"It’s fine," Arthur answered. "Yes. Come check. We’re fine."

"Right," Daniel said. "Okay. Have that tea while it’s warm, and keep up with your fluids. I’ll be back in one hour." He gave a nod to Eames before he left, handing over control of the situation - control that Eames wasn’t sure he possessed. He slid the door closed behind him and Eames locked it.

Once Daniel was gone, Arthur seemed to come apart at the seams. His teeth chattered, he shook all over and tried to curl in on himself, burrowing for warmth.

"Here," Eames said, holding the straw to his lips. "Slow, all right?"

Arthur drank, shivered harder, and pushed the cup away.

"You," he said. "Please."

For a moment, Eames hated himself. Truly hated his own wretched self for not knowing what to do, for putting Arthur in danger, for breaking his heart when he tried not to put him into danger. 

He stripped off quickly. He hated Jack for starting all of this. Hated Ann for getting into his head, yes, but hated Jack for getting where it counted. But he also felt an immense wave of pity for Jack, because he had only wanted someone else, too. It was just desire that drove him. And the dreams, the endless time spent in one’s own mind, in the minds of others.

 _What monsters_ , he thought, though not entirely of Jack. Or at least not him alone.

He got into the tiny bed and climbed over Arthur so that his own back was pressed against the cold wall. When Arthur curled into him, touching him with freezing hands, pressing cold skin all over him, it was for survival. His heart was beating too fast, his breath too shallow. He tucked his cold face under Eames’s neck, his hands under Eames’s side. For survival. 

Eames pulled him in close, one arm around his waist, the other around his shoulders, cupping the back of his head with his hand. He finger-combed through Arthur’s hair, which had bits of ice clinging to it. He melted it with his hand until Arthur’s hair was just wet, and starting to get warm. He was trying to be practical, trying to think logically. In terms of survival. Maybe he was hyper-vigilant, he didn’t know. He’d spent a few hours getting smacked around, again, so it could be. He couldn’t let go of that, he had to be mindful. If he fell asleep like this, and hurt Arthur again… No. He had to stay awake.

When Arthur finally sighed and relaxed into sleep, all of the tension drained from him at once. He slept soundly, at peace, as if he had not a concern in the world. Of course, he was exhausted. He probably didn’t have the energy to remain mistrustful. Yet his sigh sounded like that of a man who had just come home after a long, harrowing journey.

 

** ** ** **

13 - Warmest Welcome, Violent Stranger

 

Slowly, the cold ebbed away, leaving nothing but exhaustion in its wake. Shivering was hard work. He was hungry, too, but lacked the energy to get up. Eames had given him some warm tea with sugar. It wasn't enough, but he physically couldn't get out of the bed to get anything else. 

Eames looked really bad, too. Someone had hurt him, there was blood everywhere, even on the covers. Arthur hadn't missed it. He meant to prop himself up when he thought his arms would hold him, meant to look Eames over and clean him up some, make sure nothing was broken. He couldn't move. He just needed to sleep, to reset his internal thermostat. 

Curling against Eames for warmth, without any sexual or affectionate intent, he tried to form some words, to ask "are you okay" or anything at all. He wanted to ask what the situation was, where Jack and Ann had gone, how the passengers were. Nothing came out. When Eames started tugging goddamn pieces of _ice_ out of his hair, and replacing it with his warm fingers, that was pretty much all she wrote. Arthur couldn't fight sleep any longer.

He woke up probably about an hour later, hot, hungry, and restless. Eames was still awake, breathing down the front of his neck, warm and damp. It stirred familiar heat in him. Eames's arms folded around him in a way that Arthur normally couldn't stand, but had served a purpose this time. Neither of them were big on long-term contact, the kind that limited movement. Usually they moved apart by mutual, friendly consent. And usually, the distance was only a physical thing. This time, when Eames sensed he was awake and drew away from him, he had a different intent, one Arthur didn't really understand.

He pressed Eames down to the bed and took a good long look at his face. 

"...clean you up…" were the only words he managed to croak out.

"Nah, I'm okay," Eames said. "We've got work to do."

"…can wait… all bloody."

Arthur rolled aside and stood on shaky legs, retrieving Eames's first aid kit. Eames tried subtly to make a metaphorical run for it, sitting up and grabbing his discarded trousers.

"Fucksake," Arthur tried to say, "at least find clean ones."

Eames was in some kind of hurry to get away from him. Arthur pushed him back down on the bed and made him sit while he cleaned him up. He didn't do too good of a job because his hands felt shaky, and he was aching all over, all the way to his bones, to his viscera. It wasn't just a physical thing - something inside was hurting, too. 

But for godsakes, Eames's cheek was bruised to hell and back, his eyebrow was split, and so was his upper lip. His chin and cheek were still bloody. Was he in such a hurry to get away from Arthur that he was going to walk around like that? Eames just stared ahead as Arthur tended to him. Like earlier, he felt like he was alone in the room.

Arthur was better with actions than with words. He pushed Eames onto his back and kissed his face, anywhere there wasn't a bruise or cut. Eames still looked away from him.

 _I'm trying to show you something_ , Arthur thought, _Just let me show you that we're all right._

"I'm not sure you're up for this," Eames said.

"I'm up for it," Arthur promised. _I want to make you feel better, forget for a few minutes, forget about Jack, forget everything._ He didn't say those things, because giving voice to them would make them real, and right now it was just the two of them, with a precious few minutes alone.

** ** ** **

Eames was thinking of Ann's eerie, mourning cries, and of Jack's surprised eyes looking up at him as he bled out. He hadn't told Arthur yet. Arthur hadn't asked. He'd just slept, briefly. Well, he needed it, Eames reckoned. When Arthur slept this time, he didn't even seem to be dreaming. He coughed a few times, and uncomfortably tried to clear his throat. But otherwise he didn't move, and Eames was afraid to disturb him. 

When Arthur started to wake again, Eames's mind was elsewhere. They had to pack their shit up, get out before the authorities took them in for questioning. It would be soon, a few hours. Was Jack even alive? And Ann, she was probably insane. Well fuck, she _was_ insane, but by now she was probably too far gone to even protest her insanity.

Was that how dreamers ended up, when they dreamed together for too long? Getting so far into each other’s subconscious, into the labyrinth of another person, that they never got out? 

_But we spend time apart,_ Eames reminded himself. But time together or apart didn’t matter. Intimacy did. Not sexual intimacy, but the emotional kind, where you shared too much. Jack and Ann were brother and sister. The Cobbs, husband and wife. He and Arthur? What were they? What was their intimacy?

Arthur seemed to sense this same thought. When he woke, he fussed for a while over Eames, inefficiently trying to clean him up. It was nothing more than a gesture. Finally he pushed Eames onto his back, that very familiar look in his eyes that only meant one thing. ( _’You have the most blatant sex-eyes I’ve ever seen,_ ’ Eames had told him once, years ago.) 

"Don’t," Eames warned him, "I’m not sure you're up for this," and in fact, he wasn’t sure if he could.

But when Arthur said, "I’m up for it," and pressed their foreheads together, it was with such desperation that Eames couldn’t say no to him. Even at the worst of times, he found it difficult to say no to Arthur.

And when he was under Arthur’s straining body a few minutes later, his mind went into overdrive, trying to figure out what he felt. Arthur kissed him, rubbed against his neck, against the inside of his thigh, touched him so fervently that Eames wondered if somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought he was saying goodbye.

That was it; Arthur was saying goodbye. He couldn't trust Eames, not with this going on. But he also couldn't just walk away from their history. He tried to give Arthur whatever he wanted, contact and groans and murmurs that Arthur wrung out of him anyway, regardless of how carved-out he felt on the inside. 

Arthur hadn't even moved off of him, and was still panting against his neck when he said, "That's enough of this bullshit."

And that was it, Eames thought - that sudden. Arthur was going to walk away right now, this second. Arthur pulled away quickly, making Eames have to bite his lip at the sudden loss, and sat up, casting around for something to wear, anything, so that he could gather his shit together and walk away.

But after Arthur tugged his trousers back on, he turned back to Eames, pointing an accusatory finger and said, "That was probably the worst sex I've ever had in my life, Eames, and that's counting that one time in Kona with the compound reaction and projectile vomiting. What was this? You're not even in the room with me. Fuck this. You're upsetting me now. I'm starting to get pissed off." His voice was still shot, only every second or third word came through.

"What…" Eames began.

Arthur grabbed the PASIV and chucked it next to him on the bed. "Let's go."

"Bad idea," Eames said, surprised by this turn, but also relieved. "We'd be helpless, for one thing. For another, we have to pack everything up so we can make a quick…"

"It takes me five minutes to pack my shit up, Eames, you know that. Don't fuck with me right now, I'm not in the mood. We have five extra minutes."

"And if someone comes in?" Eames was trying to be practical. Arthur was confused, emotional, and probably already mourning their impending separation. 

Arthur huffed and opened the door, still in nothing but his trousers. He peered both ways down the hall and then gestured with his hand. After a moment, Eames heard Daniel asking, with concern, if everything was all right.

"We're okay," Arthur said. "You have a gun?"

"Yes, Mr. Eames gave me…"

"Can you give me a sit-rep?"

"A what?"

"Tell me what's going on out here. Is everything quiet? No bad guys?"

"Mr. Eames said he'd taken care of them for the time being. But eventually…"

"Great," Arthur said. "Quick favor. I don't know who else to ask. Can you watch the door for six minutes? Exactly six. We have to do a wipe-down of the room and take down all our security measures. It leaves us exposed."

"Oh. Yes, of course!" Eames could hear some small hint of pride under Daniel's own exhaustion. He liked the man better for it.

"Oh, hey," Arthur said, before coming back inside, "how are Michelle and Helen holding up?"

"Like troopers," Daniel said.

"And the people I was outside with?"

"Worried about you, actually," Daniel said.

"Tell them I'm fine. I'll see them in a bit," was Arthur's reply. Eames could hear his smile. He longed to see it.

But when Arthur closed the door and turned back to him, his lips were pressed together and his jaw was set tight. Eames sat up on the bed, naked, and still with that just-fucked buzz, even though his heart had ached through the whole thing.

"I've seen inception before, Eames," Arthur rasped, opening the PASIV and starting to set up. "I saw Mal before she died. I checked up on Fischer. I know the signs and I know that Jack took you pretty far down. We need to do this."

Eames sat back against the wall, stunned. Yes, true, he knew that Jack had taken him under, deep. Jack had told him the truth about himself, and about Arthur. About their betrayal of each other. But that was the _truth_. Could you incept someone with what was already real? And anyway…

"You can't undo inception," Eames said. Exhaustion weighed him down. He dropped his head into his hand.

"Don't tell me what I can and can't do," Arthur snapped. He grabbed Eames's wrist, startling him. Eames looked up at him.

Arthur's eyes softened. His lips parted a little. He looked surprised and pained. "Eames," he whispered, "will you please go under with me?"

"Yes," Eames said, because that was always his answer when Arthur came to him in fairness and sincerity.

"Thank you," was Arthur's reply. 

He set them both up and pressed the button. Eames fell quickly.

** ** ** **

Arthur found him three levels down. Eames was sitting on a stone bench, in the middle of a park, in the dead of winter. He was very young, in his early twenties, dressed shabbily in a ripped sweater and jeans. His fingerless gloves were also torn. He had obviously been badly beaten. He looked like a kid who had been wandering around for a long time, looking for home, when he realized he couldn't go any further. He kept spasmodically clutching something in his hands. Arthur couldn't see what it was.

Eames flinched when Arthur sat down next to him. Blood matted his long, light-colored hair to his head. A few of his fingernails were missing.

"Two weeks," Eames said. He swallowed thickly. "And it wasn't the beatings or the, anything else. It was that room. That room they put me in, alone."

"I didn't know," Arthur said. The words tore the scab from the wound; guilt flowed to the surface. "Eames, I had no idea. They asked me to find a guy named Luke Bishop. I found him. If I had known what they did to people, I wouldn't have even been working for them. You have to know that about me. I'm not saying that it wasn't my fault. It totally was. But even if it _hadn't_ been you? If it had been some other random guy who I'd never see again, who would never have my back and be my best comrade, some random guy who would never take a bullet for me, who I'd never fall in love with, I _still_ wouldn't have done it if I'd known. I know I've done some bad things. But I'm not evil. At least I don't think I am. I don't like cruelty, I know I'm violent, but I hate the idea of sadistic… Eames. Please, you know this."

"I know," Eames whispered. Even his voice sounded young. "I know that. A few years after this I'll change my name to Robert and I'll get mixed up with a bunch of criminals. I'll steal a few large and get two brothers sent in for a five-stretch. I have no room to pass judgment. I'm just afraid. I've never been afraid like this before. I'm not Eames yet."

Arthur sat a little closer. "What are you holding?" 

Eames looked down at his hands, with their missing fingernails. Slowly, he unclenched his fingers. In his hand was a glass bottle, rounded at the bottom and stopped with a cork. The liquid inside was an ethereal mix of green, silver and blue. It flowed and shifted, swirling around in the glass.

"Something from you," Eames said. "I don't have this yet. I don't have an Arthur yet."

"Well you have me now," Arthur said.

Eames turned to him. He was Eames again now, still bloody, still bruised, but _Eames_ , at 37, with a few gleaming lines of silver in his darker hair. Arthur wanted to touch those threads. The same patrician nose, same rainy-day eyes, and, Arthur was always pleased to note, the same mouth. He was bigger, broader with muscle and strength. Arthur liked him so much better this way than the pretty boy he used to be.

"You still have what I gave you?" Eames asked.

"The weapon, yeah. I guess we should forget about those when we wake up. But let's not forget this, okay? Let's not forget that we're all right. If we are, I mean. Are we?"

Eames took a long time to look him over. Without a word, he reached out and skimmed his fingers over Arthur's throat, gently rubbing, over and over again.

"It's all right," Arthur said. "How many times have I woken up taking a swing at someone?"

"Only once or twice," Eames said.

"So, it happens. Forget it. Well, I don't mean _forget_ it, I just mean, I'm okay, I'm alive, I'm over it. Let's not let this fuck us up, we can't afford it. I need you in my life. I don't mean I need to own you or that you have to be there all the time or whatever. I just need someone I can trust, who I know I can work with, without the distraction of wondering if they're going to leave be bleeding in an alley, you know? I have that with you. I don't want to lose that. I'm too far into this business to start over."

"I don't want anyone else," Eames said.

"Yeah, well I don't either."

Eames's fingers left Arthur's neck and cupped his jaw instead. "I mean in my life," Eames said. "In my work, in my hotel room, in my bed, in my mind. Everyone else bores me. When I work with other teams, I compare them to you, and they all come up shabby and incompetent. It's uninspiring, you know."

"I know," Arthur said. "We're pretty good together."

"Hush," Eames said, pressing his thumb against Arthur's lips.

Arthur closed his eyes and waited. He slid his tongue out a bit, prodding Eames's thumb with it, and waited some more. And waited. Finally he got annoyed and opened his eyes. "Eames, what…"

"Hush, I said." Eames was frowning into the distance. "Hear that?"

"I don't hear anything." But Eames was still listening, so Arthur closed his eyes and listened, too.

From what seemed like an unthinkable distance came a thunderous, drawn-out sound. War-drums, or a volcano erupting; a long, enduring rumble.

"Time to go," Eames said, standing. "Someone's banging at the door."

"Fuck," Arthur said. "You'll be naked when we wake up. Be ready for anything."

"You too," Eames said. 

Arthur pulled his gun out of the holster and pressed it to his temple. 

"Wait," Eames said. "Just one second. I want to do this while we're down here. You're quick, Arthur. Your reflexes are beyond compare. The next time someone has a gun pointed at you, or you're in any kind of danger, you'll make the correct split-second decision. Do you understand me?"

Arthur felt the corners of his mouth pulling into a smile. "God damn you," he said. "You are too, Eames. You read people's motives without fail. You'll know when someone's about to hurt you and you'll act to protect yourself."

"We have to stop doing this to each other," Eames said. He was smiling now, too. Then he kissed Arthur quickly, and pulled his own gun. "Let's get up there."

** ** ** **

*bangbang!*

The last gunshot tore Eames out of the last level. The lingering sound of it turned into the heavy banging on the door.

"Mr. Eames! Arthur! It's Daniel!"

Arthur was already at the door, pulling a sweater over his head while Eames grabbed his trousers and tugged them on. Arthur glanced over his shoulder to make sure Eames was prepared. Not dressed, just prepared. Eames grabbed his pistol from the nightstand. Arthur opened the door. 

Daniel looked concerned but not in a panic. "We have a situation," he said. "It's Ann. She's wandering around crazy, she's got a gun. She's - she's just crying, and calling for you."

"For me?" Arthur said.

Daniel didn't have to answer. Her voice carried down the corridor, a weepy, lost sound. _arrrthurrrr…_ Repeated mindlessly.

"Jesus," Eames said, pulling his shirt on. "It's Jack. It's got to be." In his frantic search for Arthur in the snow, in his worry that he would freeze to death even inside the train, he'd forgotten about what he'd seen before the train had reversed. "She shot him," he explained to Arthur. 

" _Ann_ shot him?" Arthur looked stunned, confused.

"She did it for you," Eames said. "Come on, let's go." 

They swept out of the room. Eames told Daniel to gather everyone he could find, the stragglers who had left the safe-car, and herd them all back in. Daniel nodded and stuck the gun down the back of his trousers. Eames wished he wouldn't do that.

Arthur was sprinting through the corridor, following Ann's calls of distress. Eames went after him.

They found her in the lounge, terrifying a small group of passengers who were huddling behind the bar. Ann stood in the center of the room, her cheek almost black from where Jack had struck her. She was holding a gun, flailing both her hands around, casting her eyes about the room as if Arthur might appear anywhere at any given moment. When she finally did see him, she held her arms out like a mother asking her child to run to her.

Arthur went slowly, both hands held up, showing he wasn't armed, even though Ann clearly didn't care. He only moved faster when she started to topple towards him. He caught her easily, looking over his shoulder at Eames, his face showing something near panic. 

She threw her arms around him and pet his hair and his back. "Arthur, I stopped the train for you Arthur, I made it go backwards. I did it. I did."

"Thank you," Arthur said. He reached down and took the gun from her, tucking it carefully away in the back of his trousers. Arthur knew enough not to shoot his own arse off, and Eames was behind him so no one could take the gun from him.

"He was going to let you die but I killed him for you. Oh Arthur, he's dead, my Jack, I watched him die. I did it. _I_ did it. I did it for you."

Eames felt like the air had been sucked out of his lungs. Jack was _dead_. Ann had shot him, he'd seen this happen, but now he was dead, he had bled out in the few short hours that Eames had spent with Arthur. 

"It's all right," Arthur said. Finally he put his arms around her. "Yes, you did it. You saved me. You saved me back then and you did it tonight, too. Thank you." He clearly knew he was dealing with someone who was unhinged and probably very limited in her emotional range, but the few emotions she felt—rage, obsession, grief—were magnified.

And, Eames thought, Arthur had to feel something for her. Gratitude, or pity, or empathy. Or maybe he even felt something like what Eames felt for Jack. Some kind mourning for something he hadn't even realized he'd lost.

"Thank you for saving me," Arthur murmured into her platinum, blood-streaked hair.

She hitched in a few restless sobs and rubbed her face into his sweater. "Will you come with me?" she asked. "Can I take you with me, Arthur? Can you be that boy again, in school?"

Arthur just shut his eyes and kept shushing her. He knew well enough that there was no right answer to that. Anything would set her off again.

"When the morning comes, the train will stop," she said. "At least stay until morning. Let's have it the way it was, until then. You and me and Jackie. We can stay together one more night. Come with me. Come with me. Let me show you. Jack wants to tell you he's sorry."

Eames wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and finally caught Arthur's eye. Arthur looked, for once, completely out of his depth. _What the fuck do we do?_ he asked without words.

They never got to decide. First, a feeling of intuition prickled at the base of Eames's spine. They weren't going to be allowed a choice. Something was coming. Some _one._ He reached for his gun.

Kenzie Fenderlyn came in through the door behind Ann. Eames was the first to see him, and then Arthur. Kenzie's nose was crusted with blood and skewed to the side. His front tooth was missing, probably from Eames's knee, or maybe one of his improvised projectile bottles.

"Five fucking years, _Robert_ ," Kenzie said. He aimed the gun at Eames. 

"No," Arthur said, and shoved Ann aside, diving for Kenzie. His reflexes were quicker than ever; he wasn't going to let Eames get shot. He made the split second decision, the one that he obviously thought was correct. 

The gun was aimed at Eames, but Eames had already moved aside and drawn his weapon, he _had_ this. Arthur was right in the trajectory. Kenzie pulled the trigger.

Eames heard himself shout, heard his own voice yelling "NO" because this time it wouldn't be a shot to the arm, a few stitches and a bandage. They wouldn't tell stories about it later. It wasn't going to be a close call.

Arthur hit the floor first. Eames felt his own legs give out for a second, but only a second. Arthur landed on his side - he hadn't been knocked back by a bullet.

That had been Ann. Eames saw a flash of her blond hair as she shoved Arthur away, and then she was gone, flung back a few steps, tottering. There was a hole the size of an American quarter on her blue shirt. It didn't spread or darken, didn't spurt or even bleed.

"Arthur?" she said, looking down at him as he lay on the floor. "Are you all right?" Then she fell like a top. The surprise on her face hadn't even faded when she hit the floor. 

The people huddled behind the bar were screaming, but Eames blocked that out as peripheral noise. Kenzie still had the gun, but was looking at Ann. 

Eames put a bullet in his forehead.

Then Arthur sat up, Glock in hand, took aim past Eames, and fired. Eames whirled around to see Giles Fenderlyn fall in the other doorway, opposite Kenzie.

The two brothers had meant to trap them in this car and open fire.

Eames's arm felt suddenly heavy. His entire body felt heavy, actually. The adrenaline kept him on his feet; he looked around for more killers, more targets, other people who wanted to kill him, or kill Arthur. There weren't any. The four of them were gone.

Arthur dropped his gun arm with a shaking sigh. He looked at Eames first, pale save for the hectic flush in his cheeks. He got up on his knees and looked down at Ann. There was no reason to check for a pulse or call her name. He'd seen enough death to know what it looked like.

"All right," Eames said, or tried to say. At first no sound came out. He cleared his throat and tried again, addressing the small crowd hiding behind the bar. "All right, hey, _hey._ It's over. All right? It's over, go to the dining car and wait. The train driver's radioed for help."

Slowly, one by one, they rose from their crouched positions. Eames saw their faces, but couldn't put names to them. They all looked somewhat alike, but then his vision was a little hazy. They could all have been the same terrified person, for all that he knew. Or cared, at the moment.

"Go on, do as I say," he added.

They did, as people often tended to. They filed out slowly, gingerly, a few weeping and a few giving squeamish, hysterical cries as they had to step over Giles's body.

When finally the only sound was the rumble of the train on the rails, Eames went over to where Arthur was kneeling by Ann. He put his hand on Arthur's shoulder. 

"I'm okay," Arthur said. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." He slid his arms under her body and got to his feet.

"Arthur? What are you…"

"Where'd you leave Jack?" he asked.

"Ah. In the Silver compartment."

"We should… we should…"

"Yeah," Eames said. "I'll. Yes. Follow." 

He led Arthur to the compartment where he had brought both Jack and Ann after she had shot him. The door was already open and Jack lay on the bed, his blue eyes only slightly lighter than they'd been earlier. His skin had already gone waxy and livid. Eames thought he must have died even before Ann woke from the sedation he'd given them. Maybe the sedation had finished Jack off, now that he thought of it.

Jack's head was turned to the side (maybe Ann had turned it, to look at him,) and his sightless eyes seemed to look at Eames. He'd seen dead bodies before. More than any man ever should. It never got easier, not ever. 

Arthur put Ann down on the small bed beside her brother. He stumbled a little, and his breath hitched in what might have been a restrained sob. Eames gave him a minute because he didn't know what else to do. He didn't know what Arthur needed to cope with this. He didn't even know what he needed. They hadn't known these people for long, and had forgotten about them for years. Jack and Ann had done nothing but get into their heads and fuck around, cause them grief, cause them to question themselves and each other.

Yet Jack had done it out of what he thought was love. And Ann had acted out of loyalty. Such loyalty that she'd taken on herself the honor of dying for Arthur. 

Jack's obsession had been so like Cobb's, using people, putting others in harm's way because it was the only way he knew how to protect something he wanted. Ann had died like Mal, in the grip of insanity, thinking she was doing right by someone she loved.

 _Such monsters?_ Eames thought. 

He put his hand on Arthur's back. 

"I'm okay," Arthur said again. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. "I really am. I'm fine. It's just, it's a lot for one day, that's all." 

"I know," Eames said.

"It's just a stress reaction."

"I know, Arthur. You're allowed to have those."

"I'm just tired." 

Eames turned him around.

"Oh, okay," Arthur said, when he saw that Eames was also wiping at his eyes. "So it's not just me."

"No, if course not," Eames said. "It's good to be able to feel things. Empathy. It keeps you… keeps you real." He pulled Arthur to his chest. "I'm beyond tired," he admitted, pressing his face into Arthur's neck. "I can't do much more of this. I need to stop before I crash. Can you understand that?"

Arthur pulled back from him, his eyes wide. "Are you leaving me?"

"What? No, you silly fuck. I mean _this_." He gestured around at the bloody room.

Arthur breathed out a relieved sigh and gripped Eames by the shoulders. "Just a little further," he said. "Just a little while longer. We have to strip the room, get our shit together, tie this all up. We need to be out of here before the _militsiya_ digs too deep on us but we should at least make an appearance. We only have a few hours till the next stop. There's no time to sleep, or even eat, we should…"

Eames pulled him close again, quickly, almost crushing him. "I know, just. Just a moment though. Just give me thirty seconds."

"Oh. Right." Arthur wound his arms around Eames, lax and easy and tired. Suddenly, he went still, as if taken by some revelation. "This isn't going to happen to us," he said.

Ah, so Arthur had finally read him. Eames didn't answer because he wasn't so sure he believed that. 

"It isn't," Arthur said. "We're not like this. We're…"

"Better than this?" Eames nearly snapped at him. 

"Not better," Arthur hurried to correct. "Just forewarned."

Eames remained silent. He took his thirty seconds, just like he said. Then he started to feel as if Jack and Ann were staring. He turned away from their open, accusing eyes. He kissed the side of Arthur's face and said, "Let's go."

Arthur didn't look back at the two bodies, as far as he could tell. Neither did Eames.

He slid the door shut behind them, and together they got to work.

** ** ** **


	8. Chapter 8

14 - What If This Storm Ends

 

Of course, Arthur had everything in the room packed up and ready to go in about seven minutes. He then went to the compartment that Ann and Jack had been staying in and collected their PASIV. They didn't need the _militsiya_ to find that. He took Ann's purse, her compounds, her Moleskin, her notebook. Jack hadn't brought much aside from clothes. He swept through the Fenderlyns' room too, and took all their papers, cell phones, electronics.

He did this with practiced calm and a clear head. He'd had his little moment, and maybe he'd have another at some time, but for then, it was time to work. 

In the communal shower he washed the blood off, scrubbed under his fingernails, and stood under the warm water for three minutes, letting his mind go blank.

When he came back to their room, Eames was packing up his work station. The compartment smelled of metal and chemicals, vaguely of smoke. Eames had engraved something.

"What are you working on?" Arthur asked. Something to get them the fuck out of Russia with ease, he hoped.

Eames turned and held up a chain with two separate dog tags on it: an American one and a British one. "I think Michelle deserves these," he said.

"Isn't that a little risky?" Arthur asked.

"Please tell me you don't think that these contain any real information. Forger?"

"Oh. Right."

Arthur sat down on the bed. He almost let everything crash down on him, just for a second. It was 4 AM. Just a few hours of sleep, that was all he wanted. And some food. And an aspirin. And sex, the good kind. But none of those things were really practical yet. He rubbed his hand across his forehead.

"It's going to be chaos when the train stops," he said.

Eames grunted in reply. 

"We'll need to flash some cred and then get away quick, make a clean sneak if we can."

"We thrive in chaos," Eames said. He leaned back in the small chair and stretched, pulling his arms over his head and arching. Even battered as he was, he looked to Arthur the same as he always had: like a piece of art. And he didn't even realize.

"It's not going to take them long to figure out that we weren't who we said we were," Arthur went on. "Then they're going to start searching. And they'll be looking for two men traveling together."

Eames rested his arms on his legs, leaning forward. The chain dangled from his fingers and he regarded Arthur with calm, with ease. "The usual," he said.

 _'The usual'_ was them leaving a country separately, lying low on different continents and keeping contact through disposable cell phones for a few weeks, and then meeting in some other country to pool their data and clean up any lingering details they had found. As yet, there was no one set place where they could do this. 

"It's all right," Eames said. "I'll be fine, at any rate. I need some time to go over things in my head."

"I do, too," Arthur said. He wanted to do some research into their past, into the missing four months, and find out how it had all begun, how it had ended, and most especially, if there were still any stragglers from Project Voodoo who might pop up in their future.

He didn't necessarily need Eames's skill set for that sort of work, and he did these things better without emotional distractions.

"You'll be all right?" Eames asked.

"Yeah, I'm okay," Arthur said. 

"I'll hold onto the PASIV devices and lie low in Russia for a bit. Think I'll go to the states once I can get out of here," Eames said. "No one will look for me there. It's a quiet place for me. You?"

"Don't know yet," Arthur said. "Somewhere warm. Hawai'i seems an unlikely place for this business. Never did a job there, only a lockdown that one time."

"Kona again?" Eames asked, smiling.

"Nah. Bad memories." He smiled back. "I want to hear from you the second you're able to reach me and there's no elbows tagging along. If I don't get the wire on you in two days, I'm coming after you, you hear?"

Eames's smile turned a little knowing; Arthur had seen that look many times and still didn't know what it meant. "I hear you, Arthur," he said.

"It's going to be a madhouse once we leave this room," Arthur said. "And it's not going to end until we're in two different places. Say goodbye to me now."

It took Eames two strides to cross the room and join Arthur on the bed. There wasn't enough time for anything more than a kiss, so Arthur made sure it counted.

** ** ** **

Eames had expected some looks when they went back into the dining car, where all the passengers had locked themselves down. (Or where Daniel and Helen had locked them down, perhaps.) He'd expected questions, crying, maybe a few shouts, of "When can we get off?" and "someone tell us what's going on!" demands.

He had not expected a round of applause.

So he stood behind Arthur, his head throbbing, his hands curled into fists, and just let his jaw drop. Arthur, for his part, turned to look at Eames with a similar expression.

"We almost got them all killed," Eames said. "They don't understand."

"They don't," Arthur said, "but they'll take our side when we disappear. Come on, take care of this." He shoved Eames in front of him.

Eames wanted to scowl at Arthur for that, but instead he put on his best game face. All right. If this was what the people on the train wanted, then that's what they would get. And after all, there hadn't been a single civilian casualty.

And yes, Arthur had in fact gone out into a blizzard to rescue a group of stranded tourists. And Eames had actually used himself as a human shield. So, maybe they weren't as bad as all that, but really? Applause?

He jumped up onto one of the tables and held his hands up for silence. He felt ridiculous, but what else was his life if not a series of events wherein he had to do adapt to ridiculousness? He thought he played these things off fairly well.

"All right," Eames said, "yes, all right, very good."

They quieted at the sound of his voice. A few people were weeping softly. None of this could be easy for them, and emotions were running high; every emotion. Eames had to put up his hardest shield or he would never last in this environment.

"We'll be coming to the stop, I imagine, as soon as the train is in a hospitable enough place. They're not going to wait for the station because this has been a terrorist attack, or at least that's what it's going to look like. So we'll all be off this train in a short time."

Another burst of applause, but he had expected this one.

"Here's what you need to know," he went on. "There were four people involved in this, who bought out or replaced most of the crew. Those four people are dead and we had no civilian casualties. But…" He waited out a cheer, at this. "But you also need to know that they were coming after my partner and I. Not any of you. We didn't foresee this. This was not a business trip and there was no intrigue involved. We just happened to be here, like the rest of you. I wish more than anything—and so does my partner—that we hadn't come. We were the ones who put you in danger, here. That's on us.

"Years ago we were both assigned to breaking up an international crime ring, and this, this whole situation here, with these people, seems to have been related to that." He felt no guilt at this lie of self-preservation. "The danger you were in was the result of our involvement in this case." That, at least, was the truth. Lies were always easiest when they weren't exactly lies. "So, for what it's worth, we're both very sorry," he concluded. "And we both owe you our gratitude, for your bravery." That part was also true, and it came out easily.

He looked back at Arthur, who was nodding in agreement and approval. 

He added, "I think it's safe for you to go to your compartments if you want, and collect up your valuables. I'm sure they're going to tear the train apart, so I would carry on my person anything I didn't want to lose. Umm. I guess that's it." 

He jumped back down from the table.

The relief was palpable, as if they had all been set free of this claustrophobic room that smelled of fear. It transferred to Eames as well and he sighed, feeling some of the tension drain from him. The relief was illogical, because he and Arthur still had so much work to do just to get out. To have a "clean sneak" as Arthur would say.

The Nelsons made their way to them. They shook Eames's hand and thanked him, but really they were looking for Arthur.

"Anthony, Miranda," Arthur said. "Good work out there."

Miranda answered by throwing her arms around Arthur's neck and sobbing. To Eames's probably obvious shock, Anthony did the same thing. The couple clung to Arthur, who seemed to take this patiently, if a little awkwardly, patting them both and saying, "Good job, good job, well done." Arthur had the good sense not to direct their attention to Eames, as he might otherwise have done. He must have sensed that Eames was very nearly done with human contact for a while.

Everyone else seemed to want to touch them as they went by, to crowd around, shake hands, hug, kiss, thank. _Did you not hear a word I said?_ Eames thought. _Did you not get that we almost got you killed because our pasts followed us? Was I not clear on that part?_ But the weepy smiles just kept coming, and hands patted his back and clasped his arm. They were grateful, stupidly grateful to be alive.

Eames didn't like things like this, high-strung emotions in general didn't sit well with him and his walls were already most of the way down from everything that had happened. He couldn't seem to call up his usual defense.

Then he felt a more familiar hand low on his back, a well-known pressure. He glanced at Arthur, who gave him a small smile. Eames remembered the first day on the train, only a few short days ago, but which seemed now like months past. Back then, these same people had gotten in his space, only they had been annoyed, irksome, pushy. Arthur had defused his mounting tension with the same gesture that day, too. 

He nodded his thanks.

That was about all that either of them were getting. The train shifted and slowed, knocking people around them both. Relief changed quickly to surprise, and then a mild panic as the train ground to a stop.

 _It's now, we're stopping, we can leave, we're rescued_ , everyone seemed to murmur in different ways. Then they all went rushing, dashing to their rooms to collect their belongings as he had told them to. In their haste and panic, finally, Arthur and Eames were forgotten.

Eames looked around, but didn't see Michelle or her parents anywhere. He needed to catch them before the authorities broke them all up. Before they made their clean sneak.

"Let's get our stuff out of the room," Arthur said, "and be the first ones out."

"Right," Eames said. He took a breath and cleared the lingering haze from his mind, dispelled all of those different touches, words, and emotions that swirled around like so much dust.

Right. Clean sneak.

** ** ** **

 

Arthur leaned up against the side of the train, clutching his many bags. For the moment, everyone was leaving him alone. The first rays of dawn were just beginning to spread their fingers over the white hills. Sunrise did nothing to soften the glare of the _militsiya's_ flashing lights, and the hard contrast of spotlights on the snow. Makeshift shelters, erected in haste and with military efficiency, dotted the otherwise blank landscape: red medical tents, and a few that were closed on three sides with the fronts open. 

This was obviously A Very Big Deal. This would go national.

The slowing blades of the helicopter whipped the snow into a frenzy, and for a second it was like being in the white-out again. 

The shouted orders of the _militsiya_ carried above the whirring copter blades and the wind, probably frightening the rest of the passengers. _'Poshli za nime_ ', Arthur heard, which he thought meant ' _get him'_ or ' _grab him_ '. It told him that there had indeed been more hired guns hiding out on the train, ones who had simply tried to duck away somewhere, probably the engine room. At least he didn't have to deal with them.

 _Chaos_ , Arthur thought. But he'd handled chaos before, and he could handle it now. Even on two hours of sleep and no food. He'd gone through worse, with less resources. In a few hours, with any luck and most of his skill, he'd be on a plane, and this would seem like a different world. Then, he could sleep.

He thought about how he would settle into the airplane seat, leaving behind this country, this train, and all the people on it. Michelle, Helen, Daniel, Eartha, everyone he had been stranded with. The bodies of Ann and Jack; a past he hadn't even reconciled yet. The endless snow and cold of this morning, the business he and Eames had not finished.

And Eames, of course. He'd be leaving him behind, too. This morning, this entire trip, would be another piece of his past. Soon. It would be over soon. And he would be alone, to deal with it.

Arthur was okay with being alone. He needed it.

His eyes snapped open and he realized that he'd been sleeping on his feet. He pushed himself away from the train where he'd been leaning and turned to the right, looking for Eames. Before he turned completely, something caught his eye, to his left. Something in the sky, something soundless, not a helicopter. It left a trail of black in his vision as it flew towards him. 

_Baba Yaga_ , his mind supplied, slightly hysterically.

By the time he had his head turned around to see what it was, Eartha was standing directly in front of him.

Arthur dropped his suitcases and staggered back, hand clutching his chest much the same way that Francis had been doing out in the cold. 

"I'm sorry, Arthur," she said. "Oh, honey. I didn't mean to sneak. I've got a way of being too quiet. Frank says so all the time."

And Francis, speaking of, came up behind her holding two cups of coffee and a brown paper bag. "That's god's honest truth," he said. They stood side by side, with their matching tweed coats. "She flies on silent wings."

"It's okay," Arthur said, feeling like an idiot because he had stuttered on the first word about three times before getting it out. "It's, I'm fine, just startled." It had taken Arthur years not to punch things that leapt out at him from nowhere. That control was hard-won and he was thankful for it.

Frank held out the two cups, and the bag. "Eartha snuck away and got you and Mr. Eames some bagels and coffee," he said. "Wherever Mr. Eames is. You can give him some breakfast."

Arthur looked at Eartha. Her lined face looked coy and knowing. He shook his head to clear it. "You _snuck away_?" He waved his hand towards the many cars, vans, lights, helicopter, and officers. Fuck, and here he was wondering how he was going to get out of all of this. She only kept smiling at him. Arthur took the cardboard holder with the coffees, and the paper bag. He was so hungry he almost couldn't stand it.

Which explained him seeing dark streaks darting through the sky towards him, and the way he was jumping at shadows. No sleep, no blood sugar, of course he was hallucinating Baba Yaga and falling asleep against the outside of the train during a raid.

"Thank you," he said. "God, just, yeah. _Thank you._ I'm so hungry I could, I could…" _Eat children_ , was what he very nearly said. Then he had to take a moment to stifle the hysterical laughter that threatened to come bursting out. What came out instead was a ridiculous giggle, too giddy. He dug into the bag and retrieved a bagel which, bless them, was still warm.

Eartha laughed along with him and indulgently watched him take a bite.

"Arthur," she said after a moment or two, "I think I may have something of yours."

"Fum-fing o'mine?" was what came out of his mouth, along with some crumbs. "Sorry," he said. "You have something of mine?"

Her hands, which, he noticed belatedly, had been behind her back the whole time (he really was in a bad way, he guessed,) produced a crumpled black and brown fedora.

"That _is_ mine!" Arthur said, unable to stop the embarrassing break in his voice, which was still pretty fucked up from being choked out. "Where? How?"

"I found it iced to the outside of the train, just stuck to one of the windows." She straightened it out as well as she could and placed it on his head. "Strangest thing."

It was a strange thing. Not the strangest, by any stretch, but still strange. Arthur looked down to the bagel in his hand, the cardboard holder of coffee in the other. He thought about her scratchy gloves on the back of his head, in the snow. "Thank you," he said to both of them.

"You saved us," she said. "A bit of breakfast and a crumpled hat that was already yours is a small payment."

"But you're nice," he said, and realized how stupidly tired he sounded, how little sense he was making. "You were brave, you… You have strength." He glanced at the wig she wore, then dropped his gaze to the ground. 

"Yeah, I reckon she can make it through about anything," Francis said, slipping his arm around her frail shoulders. "And we're going to have us some stories to tell when we get back home. Guess we'll be on the news."

"I guess we will," Eartha said. "I must start practicing my autograph."

Arthur laughed politely and tried to picture their northeast hometown, maybe their little house decorated with all maritime knick-knacks, like glass balls in nets, ships in bottles, seashells in the bathroom.

Eartha put her hand on his arm and said, "Take care of yourself, Arthur."

"You do the same," he said.

She leaned up and kissed his cheek and he actually felt himself blush and go a little stupid. He didn't normally deal with people like this. Didn't really deal with people outside of his business in general, he guessed. Or hadn't, in a long time. 

Francis shook his hand and wished him a safe trip home. Eartha's hand lingered briefly on his arm before she turned away.

Arthur felt chilled and a little stunned, as if he'd been thrown back into a noisy world of helicopter blades, shouting, and whirling snow drifts.

He heard Eames's voice and looked across the field to see him casually chatting with one of the uniformed _militsiya_. Arthur's Russian was for shit, but he did catch the word _'comrade'_ a few times. And the ease with which Eames was talking to this guy said volumes. He'd already convinced them that he and Arthur were the good guys. They had both produced some ID, but that would never be enough to last, once the real digging started.

No, this was something more than that. Eames had connections everywhere. Arthur remembered their first night on the train, how Eames had told him about his time here. Of course he knew people. He'd probably done some favors.

The officer clasped Eames's shoulder, smiling, gesturing with his other hand as he talked. Pointing towards the train, towards the vehicles, towards the parked helicopter. Then Eames turned, as if sensing out where Arthur was (which he usually could do, even when Arthur was trying to stay undercover,) and pointed towards him. The officer looked concerned for a moment. They exchanged a few more words, a few more gestures, and then suddenly, the two of them were hurrying toward Arthur.

Arthur snapped to attention and held onto the suitcases. 

" _Vrach, vrach,_ " the officer said, as he came in towards Arthur way too fast.

"What?" Arthur asked, looking over the guy's shoulder at Eames. "What, what's he saying?"

"It's all right," Eames said, "he's saying he's a medic. I told him you'd gotten locked out of the train, he wanted to look you over. Not a bad idea, Arthur. Where the hell did you get coffee? And biscuits?"

"Bagels," Arthur said, handing him the bag and eyeing this medic who was Eames's comrade. "I got them from…" He turned to point to where Eartha and Francis had been standing. They were gone, no trace of them. He scanned the crowd and didn't see them anywhere. "Where did… Did you just see…" He turned to Eames. "Eartha?"

"Who?" Eames said.

Arthur's stomach did a flip. He reached into his pocket and gripped onto the die. It assured him he was in reality - they were real, this had happened, he was certain of it, how could Eames not know? "Eartha and Francis. The old couple?"

"Oh!" Eames said. "Right. Matching coats. Just saw them walking about."

Arthur released a sigh of immense relief.

"Let this man take a quick look at you," Eames said. "I'm not convinced yet."

"I'm okay," Arthur said. And goddamnit, he was, he'd be more okay if people would leave him alone to get his thoughts together. But now that the guy was here, he didn't want to rock the boat. He glared at Eames, who shrugged helplessly. Then he just kept still and quiet, while the medic checked his hands, pressed on his fingernails, looked at his eyes, and finally, checked the ring of bruises around his throat.

The medic asked him something in fast Russian. Arthur glanced at Eames for a translation.

Eames looked down at the ground. "He wants to know if one of the hijackers attacked you."

"Yes," Arthur said quickly. " _Da._ Eames, tell him yes. Tell him we subdued a few of them."

"Told him already," Eames said.

The medic smiled, a young, friendly look, and tapped Arthur's forehead with his gloved forefinger, speaking another phrase he didn't know. Arthur was too surprised to ask what he meant.

"You," the medic clarified in his heavy accent, "shell shock, comrade."

"Who even says that anymore?" Arthur asked, looking at Eames. "Tell him I'm fine. Just tired." He looked back to the medic and tried for a smile. "Just tired. No sleep."

"Need to get help," the medic said, tapping his own head this time.

For some reason, this alarmed the hell out of Arthur. He didn't need help. He didn't like to be told he needed help. He really, really hated when people insinuated that he was going crazy. Even if he did think he was seeing things flying around, and momentarily not believing that normal human people had actually brought him breakfast.

"I just need to go home," he said. "Just home."

"Bone weary," the medic said, still smiling.

"Yes."

"But no frostbite, yes?"

"Yes," Arthur said. "I mean, no. No frostbite. Thanks. I'm fine. Check him," he added, jerking his chin towards Eames. "Look, he got his ass kicked pretty bad." _And he's really the one with the 'shell shock' in case you're interested,_ he thought. It was going to be tough to split up, to leave Eames like this. But they didn't have a choice this time.

"He's looked me over," Eames said. "We go back a few years. Comrades."

"I got that," Arthur said.

"He's helping us out here," Eames said, with meaning in his voice. "Clean sneak."

Arthur's eyes darted to the medic's face. His smile now looked more sly than open. Arthur nodded. "Got it. _Spasiba_ , really, _spasiba_."

"Finish your business and go," the medic said, in English. Then he added something in Russian to Eames, speaking slowly. Eames listened carefully, nodding and saying ' _mm-hmm, uh-huh, da, da, spasiba.'_

The medic gave Arthur another clap on the shoulder, clasped Eames's hand, and then he was gone.

Eames turned to him, his eyes wide and exhausted. "Your hat," he said. "It looks a bit crushed."

"Oh. I lost it in the snow and then Eartha found it for me. It was important. You gave me this hat."

"That's right." Eames leaned against the train, next to him. For a few moments they just stood side by side, watching the chaos, the news vans, the lights. "Unbelievable," Eames said.

Arthur grunted in agreement.

"We've got one more thing to do. Then we separate." He turned to Arthur and pulled the dog tags he had forged out of his coat pocket. 

"Right," Arthur said.

They both pushed off the side of the train, slow and weary, and made their way through the throng.

Eames had a way of finding anyone he needed to find in a crowd. It was a gift of his. He could sense them out, or something. Michelle and her parents were, thankfully, not being shaken down or filmed or questioned when Eames found them. They stood together, the three of them, under one of the open makeshift shelters. 

Michelle brightened when she saw them both coming. She didn't seem to know which of them she wanted first, so she threw her arms around both of them at once. Arthur looked over her shoulder at her parents. Helen, who'd been so suspicious of him but had trusted Eames right away. Who'd held down a base with a gun in her hand, on a hijacked train. And Daniel, who'd come out in the snow looking for him. Their eyes showed a look he'd seen a thousand times before, that civilian _'What the fuck just happened, when do I wake up?_ ' look. 

_You won't,_ he thought. _But when you get on the plane out of here, you'll feel like it was a dream._

Michelle let go of them and backed away, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her purposely ratty coat. "Sorry," she said. "Just glad you're both alive because I was afraid you wouldn't be."

"The two of us being alive," Eames said, "is due in large part to you."

Her eyes widened for a second, before brimming with tears. Because she was, after all, just a kid, the tears ran unchecked down her face. Helen put her hand on Michelle's shoulder and gripped hard. Michelle let her, instead of swatting her away.

"I was really scared though," Michelle said. "Like, really _really_ scared, but it was so weird, I didn't realize how scared I was until it was over. I mean I was scared while it was all happening, but it was a different kind of scared, like a not-thinking kind."

"I felt the same way," Arthur said. "It's always like that. You never get used to it. And you never should." He looked to Daniel and to Helen and said, "You raised a brave girl. Guess it's no surprise since you two are the same. The two of you held everything together in our absence. You both did a tremendous job."

Daniel allowed a few tears to slip down his face. 

"Umm," Eames said, opening his palm and showing the dog tags on the chain. He addressed Helen for this one. "Is it all right if we give these to your daughter? One's mine and one's Arthur's. Just as a small 'thank you.'"

Helen nodded, smiling with tightly reined emotion.

"You're kidding me," Michelle said. "You can't. Your names… all your information. I'll wear them. I'll show them to people. You can't trust me with this."

Eames laughed as he slipped the chain over her head. "Show them all you want, the names haven't been used in years and none of this information exists in any databases. They are unrecognizable."

Which was partly true. When Michelle held the tags in her gloved hand, Arthur noted that Eames had taken the time to distress them, to make them look hard-worn. Certainly at a time like this, it was the intention behind the gift that counted. If this forgery would make a kid proud, if it would serve as gratitude for her service, then it was all fine by Arthur.

"And stop stealing things," Eames said. "It'll only lead you to trouble such as this. Even the best of thieves get caught sometimes and you don't want to deal with the fallout."

"Please, spare me the lecture and let me have my moment," Michelle said. "Also, whatever."

Eames turned his attention back to her parents. Arthur felt it best to let him do the talking, because human contact was Eames's area of expertise.

"I hope you can forgive us for putting you into such danger," Eames said.

Daniel spoke up, saying, "We were proud to help."

"And it's not as if you asked them to come after you," Helen said. "It was just the wrong time and place. We were frightened, but we lived." She gave a high-pitched, little laugh. "And I for one feel stronger for it. I never knew I could handle myself that way. I do wonder if we'll all suffer some lingering nightmares and stress." She stopped to consider this. "Yes, I expect we will," she decided. "But we're certainly not going to let it destroy us. We're not going to cower in our homes, afraid of the next danger."

"No way," Michelle said. "My disaster quota is filled. The chances of something bad happening after this are, like, stupidly low if you think about it. How often does this kind of thing happen to people? Pretty much never. I'm good."

Arthur would have loved to agree with her. As it was, he didn't tell her she was wrong. 

"Will you two be all right?" Daniel asked. "You've both been hurt pretty badly."

"I'm all right," Arthur said. He felt like he'd done nothing but insist that he was fine for the last two days. Or maybe even for most of his life; he didn't know.

"Been banged up worse," Eames said. "I foresee my survival."

"Well, look, here's my card," Daniel said, handing it over to him. "We're in New York. If you need anything, from a medical standpoint, I can help you. If you need counseling, I can refer you to someone."

"Appreciate it," Eames said.

"Thank you," Arthur said. He noted that Daniel only gave one card, probably assuming that they were going to continue traveling together.

And speaking of, he knew that they had to start moving. Eames's comrade had only given them a small window of time. Yet, this goodbye was also where he and Eames parted ways for the time being. Maybe that was why they were stalling.

"Take care of yourselves," Arthur said.

Michelle hugged him again, pressing her face into his coat and sniffling into the wool. Then she did the same to Eames again.

"Bye, you guys," she said as she pulled away, ducking her head and trying to hide her tears, which she probably thought were stupid. 

"Farewell, Dollymop," Eames said.

He turned to leave, and Arthur took his cue and followed him.

"Hey," Michelle called after them. They turned back. "Hey, don't forget, Mr. Eames. Call a fig a fig. Not an olive. Remember? It's a fig you have there."

Arthur had no idea what this babble meant, but Eames's jaw dropped an inch or so before he smiled, rolled his eyes good-naturedly, and kept walking.

"A fig?" Arthur asked.

"Long story, I'll tell it to you when we meet up again. You're short on time."

"I know," Arthur said. "Are you good to go?" 

"I'm good. Going to lie low here with old friends until I look fit to travel. You?" 

"All set."

"The moment you land, all right?" Eames said, "the usual."

"I'll let you know where I am when the dust settles," Arthur said. "If you need me before then, get me."

Eames took a furtive look around, saw that no eyes were on them, then leaned in for a quick kiss. "Good luck. See you 'round the bend."

"Take care, Mr. Eames." 

And then they parted, Eames on one side of the train tracks, Arthur on the other. Neither looked back.

It wasn't until an after exhausting two hour bus ride, then a hitched ride that lasted three hours and a fifty minute airport wait, that Arthur finally settled into his seat on a small, private plane and breathed for what felt like the first time in days.

When the plane took off, he shifted in his seat and reached into his carry-on for more water. His hand came into contact with a bit of cold metal, an unfamiliar shape among the many known items. His mind felt slow; he should know what this was, but didn't until he drew it out of the backpack.

It was the gold pocket-watch that Eames had stolen for him on the first night, with the train carved onto the front. Arthur hadn't put it into his backpack; he had actually lost track of it. Holding it in his hand again threw the entire trip into reality. And as he had expected, it seemed like ages ago that they had boarded the train together. Ages ago that Eames had handed this to him and said, ' _My pleasure_ ' in the low purr that went straight through Arthur's spine. 

He swallowed hard and clicked it open. The inside now had an engraving on it: a simple, neatly written "A", and ampersand, and then an "E".

Arthur clicked it shut again, laughing. "Jesus, Eames," he said to no one.

He needed some time to either work through whatever leftover issues lurked in his mind from hist past, and from Ann, or to compartmentalize them so that he could work. He needed this time alone.

As the plane ascended and the clouds over Siberia broke, Arthur looked out of the window. White, some forest, more white, and then a lake, the biggest and deepest of all. He would have been there, with Eames, probably by tomorrow if all had gone according to plan. He could even see the railroad tracks, splitting the pristine snow in two.

He needed the time alone, and Eames needed it also. But, Arthur mused, looking down at the dark line of train tracks bisecting the snow - it was going to be a long, dull few weeks alone.


	9. Chapter 9

15 - Ku'u Aloha

 

It was hot. Just ridiculously hot. Seven weeks ago, Eames had been casting about in a frozen tundra searching for Arthur and hoping he was alive in sub-zero weather. He had wanted nothing but a little heat then.

And now, as Eames stood on a beach under the glaring sun, so close to the equator, sweat began to soak through his aloha shirt and into the waistband of his short trousers. Eames was used to the heat, he lived in it most of the year. But after weeks in Siberia, this was a shock to the system.

And he was still looking about for Arthur, who, so far, had not made an appearance.

Eames sat down on one of the beach chairs under a big umbrella and set down his fruity drink. It had started out all nice and slushy but was already melted. He took out his phone and again read his messages. Arthur had sent him the bloody plane tickets, signifying it was safe, and here he was, and Arthur was nowhere under this fucking burningly hot sun. It was just Eames, a bunch of tourists, and some surfers out in the ocean.

Girls and boys looked him over and he didn't know why, at the moment. He knew that he could look good if he wanted to, but right now he was wearing a hat and sunglasses. He wasn't showing off, wasn't even making an effort. He didn't have his shirt off or anything. 

' _Because you're like a billboard for sex, you ass,_ ' Arthur had once told him. _'Stop complaining about it, Jesus._ ' Always so gentle and tender, his Arthur.

He watched the surfers for a while. Some looked like novices, and some looked like they'd been doing it for a while. They were too far away to make out what they looked like, but one of them had dark hair like Arthur and a similar build. Eames watched him for a few minutes before getting frustrated and grabbing his phone again.

 **I'm here, where are you** he texted Arthur.

Again he was hit by a strange, alien case of nerves. He hadn't seen Arthur since their parting almost two months ago. Hadn't heard from him in seven weeks aside from one brief, anonymous message saying all was well. And before that, just one call: "I'm safe, are you?"

The silence between them was normal; it was how they did things. It just didn't _feel_ normal this time.

He had left Arthur with a circle of bruises around his neck and a lingering feeling of mistrust between them. He missed Arthur, wanted to talk with him, was randy for him as he always was and wanted his company. But at the same time, he dreaded that first meeting. Everything that had happened between them had created some chasm that he wasn't sure how he should cross. He felt like he would need to tread lightly with Arthur, that there was some strange new territory between them and he didn't know how to navigate it. He didn't like that feeling.

Had Arthur thought about Ann? Had he thought at all about what Eames had done to him, mucking about in his head years ago? Eames couldn't deny that he'd thought about their pasts. There had been nightmares, too, ones he'd woken up from in a cold sweat, looking for something to fight. The allies he'd stayed with in Russia had tried to offer help, but it was something he couldn't even explain.

Well, he would just have to wait and see. Arthur did love to keep him waiting. Any longer, and Eames would start to flirt back with these tourists just on principle. 

He took a sip of his melted drink and watched the dark haired surfer wipe out. He'd been doing pretty well before then too, perched on the board with grace and balance. When he surfaced, the only detail that Eames could make out was that he was grinning. He shook out his hair and limped a little towards the shore, pulling the board behind him. He sort of even had a bit of Arthur-like swagger, now that he looked closer. Maybe even more than a bit. The set of his shoulders, also similar. The slink of his narrow hips. 

"Fuck me," Eames whispered.

Some passing blonde giggled and said "Sure" before walking on, blushing.

Eames set his drink on the chair and stood up. That dark-haired, grinning, sure-footed surfer reminded him of Arthur because he _was_ Arthur.

Arthur, pulling a surfboard behind him. Black swimming trunks, covered in salt water, a bruise on his thigh, and a smile like the sun. He'd known Arthur for the better part of a decade and he'd never seen anything like this before. Desire burned in him, sudden and sharp. And some strange regret, or betrayal. Why hadn't he ever seen Arthur like this? They'd been to hot places before. He'd seen Arthur out of context in the past. Why was this so new to him?

Then some girl high-fived Arthur and reached her hand up to comb it through his hair, which was wet, and seven weeks longer than it had been before. Arthur ducked his head and acted shy, which he wasn't.

Eames felt like he'd been struck by a train.

Sensing eyes on him, Arthur turned. When he saw Eames standing there, he looked actually surprised. He raised his hand in greeting. He couldn't seem to decide if he wanted to make his way up the beach or untie the leash of the surfboard from around his ankle, so he tried to do both at once. The girl gave him a hand with the leash, pulling it from his leg. Arthur handed her the board, thanked her, and then jogged up the beach.

Eames just watched him approach, flabbergasted.

"Hey," Arthur said, once he was standing before him. "I like your shirt."

Eames looked down at what he was wearing. It was just something he had picked up in the shop because it was what one wore here. It was black (he should have known better, with the heat,) with beige hibiscus flowers all over it. Not Arthur's style. "You can't possibly like this," Eames said.

"The Aloha shirt is a pretty old tradition, Eames. It's so often misread on the mainland, but it's actually considered formal wear here. You might as well be wearing a jacket and tie. And that's a nice one. Aloha shirts are just something you do here."

"Like surfing?" Eames asked. He felt strangely shy, as if some random hot man had suddenly started talking to him. "I didn't know you surfed."

"Neither did I," Arthur said. "Growing up in California, I hated all that stuff. I thought it was stupid, all those jocks and everyone else who hated me. But I gave it a try and I like it. It's all about physics."

"I see," Eames said. He sort of did. Arthur loved anything to do with testing his abilities, his balance and poise. And he was a physical person.

"Hey," Arthur said, and kissed him. He tasted like salt. "We have some things to talk about."

Something unpleasant tightened in Eames's chest. Yes, they had each gathered some data. They had to deal with the issues that their pasts had left behind.

"I got us a nice room. _Fuck_ it's hot. Even the water is like bath water. I have the AC cranked and I need a shower. Then dinner? Then sex."

"We, we need to…"

"I'm right upstairs, come on. Did you check your bags? I hope you checked your bags already because I don't feel like carting your shit around. Do you have both PASIV devices or did you get rid of the extra? I hope you kept it; I wanted to look at it." Arthur took him by the arm and urged him along.

"I kept…"

"Good. Did you eat anything yet? The restaurant is pretty good but we could get room service if you want. We have plenty of time to look around." He stopped pulling before they got to the glass doors of the hotel that Arthur had dragged him to. "We do have time, right? I'm here for ten days. Can you spare them? Or do you have something lined up?"

Eames didn't know what to answer first. This whole thing, seeing Arthur again, seeing him in this strange context, so free and relaxed when Eames had done nothing but worry for nearly two months, just rattled him everywhere. He had to stop and think. _Tell him you can give him ten days, idiot._

Arthur waited expectantly. 

"Yes," Eames said. "Yes, of course I can stay. That was the idea, right?"

"Okay, good," Arthur said. He led the way to the elevator, and then to his room.

Arthur blithely went about the room, dripping water everywhere and swearing because he was too cold with the air turned up so high. He shut it off, just when Eames was beginning to cool down. But then, Arthur was also soaked and shivering so he guess he'd have to just wait it out.

"They got your bags up here already, good," Arthur said. "Hey, if you want to unpack or whatever, while I grab a shower. Or maybe you want to join me?" He was stark naked now, dripping in the hall and looking at Eames without shame or expectation.

"Umm. I'm going to get a drink from the bar and unwind a bit. If that's all right."

Arthur leveled him with that sunshine smile again. "Okay, take your time," he said, and disappeared into the bathroom.

Eames stood in the center of the expansive hotel room, sweating his balls off, just totally flabbergasted. He had seen Arthur relaxed, happy, and totally at ease before. Quite a handful of times over the years, in fact, when he'd run into him between jobs. He realized that this was their first actual, planned getaway - aside from the ill-fated train-tour one. And even then, Arthur had been on his guard from the start.

After all that had happened, here he was flouncing around without a concern in the world, as if everything that had happened two months ago had been just a nightmare.

Eames had no idea how Arthur compartmentalized. Or maybe he was having some kind of backwards stress reaction; that was also a possibility. Maybe he was on the verge of an honest reality-snap. Maybe he'd already had it.

"Fuck off," Eames told himself out loud. He was being ridiculous. Wasn't Arthur entitled to some happiness? Of course he was.

It was, in fact, why Eames had done what he'd done, just previous to coming here. He hadn't yet made up his mind if he was going to go through with it, either. He'd made arrangements, but had come here in caution, testing the waters with Arthur. Ten days was more than enough time to feel him out, see if Eames could safely go through with his plan. _Got a job for us_ , he would tell Arthur, if he felt like he could.

But he had to put this out of his mind. If he was thinking about it, then Arthur would read it from him. The best way to keep a secret was to keep it from oneself. Eames had learned that over the years. He stopped that train of thought, tucked it away for another time, and started unpacking.

He would just ask Arthur how he was dealing with things, that was all. Just ask him straight out if he was all right, if _they_ were all right. And if Arthur said 'yes' and meant it, then Eames would just have to follow suit and get his head straight, too.

He acknowledged to himself that he would not do this for anyone else. Most people, he would walk from in this situation. Hell, he would run. Should have run from Arthur years ago, maybe, but it was too late now.

A few minutes later, Arthur came out of the steaming bathroom, still naked. He walked around as if he were fully clothed. "Fuck, now it's hot again," he said, and turned the air back on.

"Difficult man," Eames said fondly. For all their worries—or his, anyway—he _liked_ Arthur, that was the hell of it. Loved him, in a hard way, but liked him too.

Arthur sat down on the bed, hair wet and skin damp, and beckoned. Eames went to him as if he were on a string. Arthur backed up onto the bed and pulled Eames on top of him. 

"I can wait until after lunch if you're hungry," he said. "But it better be a quick lunch, that's all I'm saying." He pulled Eames's face into his neck and tilted his chin up as if to say, _Get started._

Eames kissed him lightly. Usually he could neck Arthur for hours, or at least close to it, if Arthur let him. As it was, this time Eames just couldn't get into it. Not without talking, first. Arthur always drew him in too far, and once he was past the event horizon, there would be no turning back. Eames felt it crushing him like a dying star.

Arthur sighed heavily beneath him. "Okay," he said, relenting, "so you want to talk about what happened. I'd say 'tell it to my dick' but I think you're upset?"

Eames peeled himself away from Arthur. "Of course I'm bloody upset, you silly bastard." Arthur gave him a hurt look, just as naked as he was, and Eames wanted to kick himself again. "We need to get it out of the way," he said, softer. "I can't seem to stop hurting you. And two months ago, I hurt you quite badly."

"I hurt you too," Arthur said. "So what? We're human. That's what people do, Eames, they constantly hurt each other and then decide to let it go. Or they decide not to. I know we're in a different kind of situation than most people, with the dreaming, but still, that's how it goes. You're still thinking of Jack?"

"Yes," Eames admitted, tiredly rubbing his forehead. "Aren't you thinking of Ann?"

"Not really," Arthur said. "I mean, yes, at the end. Her obsession drove her to do something drastic. Sure, I think about her; she died protecting me. But it _was_ just obsession. From what I can remember, she wasn't exactly kind to me. Her feelings never stopped her from drugging me, lying to me, using me or whatever else she decided to try."

"I did the same, back then," Eames said. 

"And then we fucking _got over it_ ," Arthur insisted. "We're good together, Eames. We're _good_ together. Jack was someone you were with for, what, four months? Big deal, I've been in relationships with women and men for longer than that and never looked back. I've played video games for longer than that. And I'm sorry, I know you have some feelings over it and this is all very callous of me, but I've been here for the better part of ten years, watching your back, and Jack was nothing to you. Get over it."

And that's how it was with Arthur. He confronted his past and he dealt with it - or he didn't. But either way, he put things in their place and moved on. Eames admired him for it, actually. 

"I need to show you something," Arthur said. "It's probably stupid, but it made something click when I saw it."

"By all means," Eames said. 

Arthur leaned over the bed and pulled his laptop from its case. He crossed his legs and fired up the computer, patting the bed beside him. He was so shameless with his lack of clothes, Eames was impressed, and a little confounded. Normal people weren't that comfortable with themselves when trying to work out difficulties with a lover. Or whatever they were. _Call a fig a fig_ , Michelle's voice taunted him. That little tyke - what had become of her? He wondered.

"Okay, there's a few things," Arthur said. "I don't know if you're interested, but I was. I needed to follow up, to see if we'd been made, since this went national. I've read every single article and commentary about the situation on the train. Every last one; it actually took me all seven weeks. And they keep coming. Here's the weird thing. No one on the train seems to have any knowledge of our names."

"Isn't that a little odd?" Eames asked, wondering what Arthur was getting at.

"Of course it's odd, fool. They do remember our names. I'm pretty sure by now they know that we're not special agents or whatever, but they don't seem to care. People keep asking them, 'didn't you see their IDs?' But they all gave different names. But here, read this for yourself."

He turned the laptop to Eames and scooted back against the headboard.

A black and white photo of Eartha and Francis greeted him. Francis had his arm around Eartha and they were smiling.

 **No Civilian Casualties On Russian Train Hijacking** read the headline. And beneath it, _Passengers credit mysterious special agents for their safety._

He read on.

_"It was our first vacation after my treatment," says Eartha Doyle, from their modest New England home. "We were hoping for an adventure. We sure got one."_

_Eartha, 72, is a breast cancer survivor. Her husband, Francis, a World War 2 veteran, sits beside her. "We were scared, that's for damn sure," he says._

_Eartha and Francis were among a small group of tourists who were tossed off the train and left to die in a Siberian blizzard. And they would have died, they both insist, if not for the heroic actions of two men on board the train, one American, and one from the United Kingdom. When asked their names, the two grow quiet._

_"Alex, I think the American boy said his name was. And the other was James? Yes, that's what I remember."_

_This information is in conflict with different sources on the train, who cite the men as "Michael and Mr. Bloom," "James and Robert," and in one instance, "Herbert and Fritz." It's possible that the two men—who may or may not be agents involved in special forces—gave various undercover names over the duration of the trip. When contacted, neither the British nor the US Armed Forces can come up with any connections, nor can offer any knowledge as to their actual identities._

_"I'm sure we would have died out there if Alex hadn't come searching for us, and his partner hadn't backed the train up," says Francis._

_When pressed with questions regarding their appearance, she becomes vague. "It was very dark out there," she says. "One had dark hair, one had light hair. They were both extremely nice, such sweet men."_

_They are very forthcoming regarding details of the perpetrators, however. Their physical descriptions match those of the bodies identified by the authorities. All four of the hostage-takers were killed. The passengers seem to agree that they turned on and killed each other, and no shots were fired by either of the two mysterious agents. (Early ballistics evidence seems to support this, showing shots fired from the perpetrators' guns.)_

_Questions of Stockholm Syndrome are being bandied about by the press, but all passengers insist that neither of the two mysterious men ever threatened them, that they seemed more intent on minding their business until they were forced to act._

_"I've been in hostage situations, thank you very much," says Francis. "This isn't my first rodeo, as they say. I know what you're getting at, and it isn't so."_

_The main perpetrators have been identified as Ann and Jack St. John Whitelock, brother and sister, and Giles and Mackenzie Sorin, brothers, all from the UK._

_This does not seem to have been a terrorist attack, and no demands seem to have been made on any of the passengers._

_"We don't know why they did it," Eartha says. "Maybe they were just crazy. It's all very sad."_

_When asked if they plan on taking any more trips, the couple say that they will._

_"We're fine," Francis says. "Can't let these things scare you into a foxhole."_

_The couple says they've made plans to take another trip, this time to a warmer place._

_"Not going to tell you where, though," Francis says.  
_

Eames finished the article and set the laptop aside. He rolled Jack's real name around in his head, trying to grab onto it, to remember if he'd known that name or not. _Whitelock, Whitelock…_ It didn't even ring a bell. The Sorin brothers did, though. At least the name; he'd never seen them during or after the time he had stolen from them.

"We're the good guys," Arthur said. "That's what I can't get over. They turned us into some sort of heroes. But I think that was necessary."

Eames lifted one shoulder in agreement. Sure, if that made people sleep better at night, and it gave them something aside from the terror of their hijacked trip to focus on, then so much the better.

"One more thing," Arthur said, pulling the laptop back. "I thought you might want to see this."

"Michelle?" he asked.

Arthur smirked and called up a web page. He scrolled to the bottom and handed it to Eames. The address bar read "http://dollymop.tumblr.com/" . Her background was a glaring white-and-pink checked monstrosity, and her bio was on the left.

_Hi, I am Michelle Fairholme, from the lov-er-ly state of New York. Please don't stalk me. I like vintage clothes, theater, photography and yes, Pokemon. If you have a problem with that, come at me bro._

"Just start at the bottom and scroll up," Arthur instructed him.

Smiling, Eames did just that. The first entry on the bottom had been reblogged over 1000 times. It was a picture of Michelle, Daniel and Helen standing under the open shelter, after the raid. It must have been taken even before they'd gone to say goodbye, because Michelle wasn't wearing the dog tags yet.

The attached article was somewhat similar to the one with Eartha and Francis. No, the Fairholme family could not name the two men who had "saved the train" in the words of their young daughter. Yes, they had been harmed by the hijackers, who had struck the young girl. And no, the family would not be frightened into staying at home.

 _"We raised our daughter to be strong and brave. We're proud of her,_ " Helen was quoted as saying.

The article made no mention of the dog tags.

Below the article were Michelle's own comments: " _In case you guys are wondering, YES, I was on that train you're all hearing about, and here is the proof. What a way to spend the week, you guys. I AM OK, nothing permanent, haha. Maybe one day I'll get to go back to Russia. Umm. On second thought maybe not. Anyway. Here's the article, read it and enjoy my fifteen minutes._ "

The reblog notes were from some of her friends ( _'FUCK I WAS SO WORRIED ABOUT YOU_ ,' ' _Chelle, please don't ever leave me again_ ', ' _Dollymop is famous!_ ', ' _When are you coming back to school, I need to interview you!'_ and _'I love you babygirl! Stay strong!_ ') and some were obviously from strangers ( _'What a brave family! Bravo!_ ' and ' _You can't make this shit up, people_ ,' to ' _Do we honestly believe that these people don't know who was on the train with them? Come on, someone's bullshitting here._ ')

Eames scrolled up. Next was another picture of the family, the three of them, in front of their large, landscaped home. A black standard poodle sat pressed up against Michelle's thigh. ' _Charizard was happy to see me!_ ' the caption read. _'You can always count on your dog to be glad you're alive. Even though he has no idea what happened._ ' Reblogged 342 times.

The next photograph was a close-up of Michelle, from her chin down to the dog tags hanging over her shirt. Her chin was tilted up in pride, and the information on the tags blurred out. ' _A gift_ ', was the only caption. Reblogged over a thousand times. The comments ran the gamut from ' _cool_ ' to ' _shopped_ ' to ' _I can almost read the numbers, I just need a little more time._ ' It was strange, seeing his own handiwork posted on the internet.

The top picture made him catch his breath. It was titled ' **LOVE** ' in bold letters. This photograph was also purposely blurred. She had taken it at Church On Blood, probably only a minute or two before Ann had gotten to her. The angle suggested that she'd been on the other side of the open arched alcove. In it, Eames was pushing Arthur up against the wall of the church, one hand holding his wrist, the other cupping the side of his face as he kissed him. Arthur's hand was clutching tightly to Eames's olive green peacoat, drawing him closer. Two sets of footprints, in sharp focus, led up the hill to the alcove. He felt breathless just looking at it, that same falling sensation he'd felt at the time of the photograph. 

Michelle had added a description to this one, too.

' _Haters to the left. This is a random couple from a different tour that I saw at this church one fine morning before all the trouble started. If you can't see the love in this picture then YOU ARE BLIND and I feel pity for you. Love is the same whoever feels it, and I believe in calling a fig a fig, and not an olive!! It was obvious watching this couple that they have been together for a long time, maybe even college sweethearts. You could feel that they trusted each other with anything and everything. This is what a real relationship should be like, people! If you have this, you are lucky! You should always treasure it! If you find something like this… never let it go._

_Umm yes I am a bit of a creeper LOL. Oh, this style is called BOKEH for those who are interested. That's why they're blurry._

Eames stared, slackjawed. This one, too, had over a thousand reblogs. When he clicked on the comments, they ranged from _'OMFG SO SWEET'_ to, ' _hot, I'd like to be in the middle of that_ ' to, ' _Could these be the two mysterious secret agents, revealed?_ ' It had been reblogged by a group called _fuckyeahprettymen_ , which Eames found strange since no one could even see their faces.

He looked again at the picture. It was a beautiful photograph, from an artistic standpoint. But, Arthur's hand clutching his coat… that's what he noticed the most. That, and the sharply contrasted footprints leading up to them.

Was that how others saw them? Was that how _Arthur_ saw them? 

"I need you to make a decision," Arthur said, his voice soft. "It's not an ultimatum. I don't do those. But after all this time, I think I get one request. Are you going to give this another chance?"

"Arthur," Eames said, closing the distance between them. He put his hands on Arthur's shoulders, still warm and damp from the shower. Slid his fingers over his neck, over his shoulder blades. "Arthur, that was never in question. I was never going to try to end this. I just needed a bit of a talk, that's all, really. Sometimes it takes a while for my head to clear, you see."

"Well," Arthur said, "mine's pretty clear. Are you going to need more time? I'll wait." He pulled back, teasing, shifting his legs and darting his eyes to the side. "I'm a patient man."

"Sometimes you are," Eames said, stealing the space back. "Other times, not so much. Wouldn't want to try your patience for too long."

Arthur let out a satisfied groan when Eames kissed him. 

They had nine more days. Eames was pretty sure that he could wrest a few more of those sounds from him in that time.

** ** ** **

On the second day, Eames woke up with his face pressed into Arthur's ribs. It was just the different time zone that woke him, as it was still dark. The heavy slatted blinds in the room were drawn, and the AC droned and rattled. The clock read 4:53 AM. He had to have a piss. It was torture getting out of the bed. 

When he came back from the bathroom, Arthur murmured, "Could you lower the air?" 

Fuck, it was so hot already, he was sweating. He reached out and grabbed Arthur's foot, which felt cold. Arthur grunted and jerked away from him. Eames lowered the AC because Arthur was obviously some sort of lizard. He was going to buy him a hot rock or a heating lamp to bask under.

Even though it was as hot as balls, he resumed his position with his face on Arthur's chest, his arm thrown across his stomach. He was awake now, no longer even that tired. He turned his head and kissed the center of Arthur's chest, breathing him in. He smelled like hotel soap. Arthur sighed back into sleep as Eames curled his hand around his ribs, gently feeling the slow rise and fall. 

He held tenaciously to the peace of pre-dawn. Nothing was going to shatter it this time. Just a few weeks without work, without stress, without the PASIV. That was all he wanted. Soon enough he would be itching to work again, both of them would. Because they loved the dreams, they loved the money, and, admittedly, they both did love the challenge.

But not yet.

** ** ** **

On the third day, they went around town on foot and drank slowly all day, getting smashed in tiny increments until dinner. Arthur fucked him on a reclining chair at the beach at night, when no one else was around. Or at least, he was pretty sure no one else was around. Arthur tugged his hair and bit the side of his neck so hard he left a dental imprint that someone could make a cast of, if they had to.

** ** ** **

On the fourth day, Arthur went surfing and swimming in the ocean, and Eames fell asleep under an umbrella until he dehydrated. Arthur helped him back to the room, calling him an idiot and a fucking careless bastard. He put him under the cool shower and spent the rest of the afternoon bringing him water after water, cranking the AC even though it was obviously making Arthur freeze. Eames huffed and rolled his eyes and got annoyed, and Arthur refused to have any kind of sexual relations with him for fear of knocking his electrolytes out of balance, but really he was just mad at him for being stupid.

** ** ** **

On the fifth day, Eames made it up to him and many electrolytes were lost. 

** ** ** **  
On the sixth day, they hiked up a mountain and then down into some deep, dark cave that Eames could have done without. But Arthur was wearing khaki shorts with a lot of pockets as if he were some sort of explorer, and he was obviously very excited over the whole thing. They looked at a waterfall, which was lovely, but nothing Eames hadn't seen before. A beautiful couple on their honeymoon, man and woman, invited the two of them for drinks and to perhaps go back to their room afterward. Arthur declined, looking modestly down at his shoes and pretending to be shy in order to let them down gently.

When they were gone and he and Arthur were alone on the trail, Arthur turned his ridiculous sex-eyes on Eames and asked, "Unless you wanted to? You could have watched him fuck me."

"I'd have been busy with the lovely missus," Eames said.

Arthur went from sex-eyes to death-glare and pushed Eames back up against a coconut tree. He glanced around furtively as he went to his knees and undid Eames's trousers.

Eames dug his fingers into the bark of the tree. It was quick, almost brutal, with an edge of teeth. That put an end to Arthur's little litmus test, and later, Eames laughed at Arthur's failed attempt at making him jealous.

** ** ** **

On the seventh day, Arthur found a store that sold the same kind of chocolates that he'd stolen for Eames the first night on the train. They went to a show, watched ridiculously attractive people dance, listened to music, and, in Eames's estimation, got bitten by too many bugs. And this was from a man who was used to hot-weather bugs.

After dinner, Arthur spent an hour on the lanai talking on the phone to Cobb. As Eames was coming out of the shower, Arthur laughed raucously and Eames had to stop and consider how far Cobb had come since being reunited with his children. 

At one point, Arthur turned to look back inside, probably just to see if Eames was doing anything interesting (he wasn't; he was looking at a menu.) Arthur was facing the sun, lit up by it. He shielded his eyes with his hand and squinted, peering in the door. His simple ' _what are you doing in there_ ' gesture filled Eames with unexpected joy. Or maybe it was seeing Arthur in the sun instead of in a blizzard. Or maybe it was just seeing Arthur.

Then Arthur spent a few hours, still on the lanai, catching up with the articles he had missed about the hijacked train. He hacked into some American newspaper's database, frowning and saying that someone had dug a little too deeply. No, it wasn't a cause for concern, he had taken care of it, it was just an annoyance to have to do this on his vacation.

They rented a bad porno and ate the box of chocolates, laughing at the actors. Then Arthur showed him how he thought it should be done.

** ** ** **

 

On the eighth day, Arthur woke up before dawn, sitting up and hastily wiping away tears. Eames draped an amiable arm across his shoulders and pulled him down to the bed, not intimate but companionable, and Arthur let himself be pulled. "She died for me," he said. "I have to remember that. I can't let myself forget."

Eames knew better than to kiss him or pet him, as that was too distracting and Arthur needed to think. He just kept an arm around his shoulders, his nose in Arthur's hair, breathing him in and waiting it out. 

"Sorry about that," Arthur said. "And here I am telling you to get over it."

"That's all right," Eames said. "Perhaps we're not meant to get over it. We just work around it. Yeah?"

"Yeah," Arthur said. "I kind of bullied you about it last week. Sorry. I'm not good at things like this."

"You are," Eames said. "You've got your methods. I've got mine. So long as they still complement each other, that should be all right."

Arthur nodded against his shoulder.

That day, they went to a museum and stood under the bones of a sea creature that dwarfed busses. 

"That's the kind of thing that's swimming along with you in the ocean," Eames told Arthur.

Arthur withered him with a glance and said, "The incident of injury in the ocean as compared to the number of people actually in it is so small it's not even worth mentioning."

** ** ** **

 

On the ninth day, Arthur decided to give surfing one last go. The waves were a little bigger this time and he wiped out hard enough that Eames was jumping off his chair, spilling his melted drink everywhere.

Arthur had twisted his knee in the sand and looked at Eames like it was his fault, which was fucking ridiculous.

Eames rolled his eyes and lent him an arm back to the room.

"This is your fault," Arthur griped, sitting on the bed as Eames wiped beach sand off of him and surveyed the damage.

"Yes, yes," Eames said.

"You jinxed me."

"You're a child." Eames tugged on his calf, checking for unusual motion.

"Ow, you fuck," Arthur said. "I bust my leg and the first thing you do is go jerking on it?"

"Hush. You're fine, nothing's torn. You've a sprain though."

"And get this fucking sand off of me, I _hate_ sand."

"Then let's get you rinsed off so I can get a wrap on this. Shall I help you?"

"No," Arthur said. "I got it." He hauled his sorry ass off the bed and hobbled into the shower.

Eames watched him go, feeling so exasperated, and fond of him at the same time. And a little irrationally angry at the entire ocean. 

When Arthur came back, there was another bruise spreading over the front of his thigh, from where the board had come up and hit him. He sat on the bed and pulled himself back, gingerly straightening his leg.

"It's cold in here," Arthur said. "Can you…"

"Lower the AC, yes, yes." Eames did so before grabbing one of the self-adhesive bandages from his kit and climbing back onto the bed. He settled between Arthur's thighs, quite aware of the different context of his position. Yet Arthur was smirking at him.

Eames kissed the inside of his knee. When Arthur didn't protest, he lifted his leg gently and kissed behind it.

"That doesn't actually help," Arthur said.

"No? Studies prove you wrong. Kissing floods you with dopamine and oxytocin. It's a pain-killer." He wound the bandage just the right side of tight and pressed it closed on his thigh. Then he kissed just above the bandage. "Kissing has profound effects on health and healing." He kissed his way higher. "And studies also show that it's good for your teeth. Removes tartar."

"That's disgusting," Arthur said. But he was already starting to show a flush on his skin that wasn't from the sun.

Eames crawled up until he was face to face with Arthur, bracketing his hips with his hands. "Is it?" 

"When you put it that way, it is." Arthur leaned forward anyway. His eyes slipped closed as easily as his lips parted.

Eames teased him until Arthur grabbed the back of his head and pulled him into a proper kiss. And, god, he could kiss Arthur all day, if there weren't so many other parts to him that demanded attention. Yet, he'd had Arthur in every way possible; there was no longer any need to rush. He could take his time, these days. Except that Arthur was shifting under him, pulling him down and tilting his chin back.

Eames was careful of his knee, not wanting to bend it at any awkward or uncomfortable angle. This was going to be tricky.

"Going to be a bit stiff on the plane tomorrow," Eames said.

Once the words were out of his mouth, he remembered what he really wanted to tell Arthur. What he'd wanted to say since he had come here, what he'd put out of his mind so as not to give anything away.

"I'm stiff now," Arthur said, with humor in his voice.

"So you are." 

And so it was after, that Eames said to him what he'd wanted to say. About an hour after, actually. After he'd made him writhe a bit, and curse and sweat, after he'd pulled the most deeply satisfied groans and hums out of him. After Arthur, panting and spent underneath him, had said, "Fuck it's hot. God, this heat, I'm sticking to you. Can you turn up the AC?"

"Difficult, impossible man," Eames said, smiling against his neck. "Unappeasable. ' _It's too fucking hot, it's too fucking cold,_ ' he said, in perfect mimicry of Arthur's west coast bitchy drawl. " _'I hate snow, I hate sand, you jinxed me, Mr. Eames, the train I was on got hijacked, my life is pain.'_ It never ends." 

"Fuck you," Arthur panted. 

Eames licked across his clavicles, kissed his throat and felt Arthur swallow hard, his breath hitching as if he were ready to go again. 

Eames wasn't ready. No, not yet. He'd worn Arthur out, and now it was time to tell him what he needed to tell him.

"I've got a job lined up," he blurted out, which was how he usually broached this subject anyway. "I need you for it. Interested?"

Arthur ran his fingers over the back of Eames's head. If the abrupt change of subject jarred him, he kept it to himself. He shrugged. "What's the job?"

"Low risk, high return. Simple extraction. Northeast USA. This one's easy, Arthur. I'm not ready to go back into the fire yet." That, at least, was true. The best lies were always the ones that were closest to the truth.

"When?" Arthur asked.

"Two days' time. Would have asked you sooner, but I didn't like to bring business into our time here."

Arthur seemed reticent, a little closed off. That was okay, for now.

"Unless you've already got something else lined up?" Eames asked. He knew Arthur didn't.

"No," Arthur said. "I wasn't… I mean, I'm not ready to go back out there, guns blazing, either. I was hoping for a few more days."

"That's all right, then," Eames said. "Don't worry about it."

He knew Arthur would worry about it. It was mean of Eames to do it this way, maybe.

"No," Arthur said. "I'll go with you. If you need me. Low risk and high return? That sounds okay."

"Good," Eames said. He kissed Arthur wetly, moved from the cradle of his thighs, and went to turn the AC higher.


	10. Chapter 10

16 - My Blue Heaven

 

Arthur tried to get comfortable in the passenger seat of the car, enough to get a little sleep, but his knee still hurt and his mind wouldn't shut down. It was late afternoon, getting to dusk and he wondered how much farther they were going to drive.

Eames was up to something. He'd given him some vague information about the job. The name of the mark, what the extraction was. (Nicole Pagette, 93, find out where she had left an antique ring before becoming bedridden.) He said the job itself started in about two days, which would give Arthur enough time to do whatever kind of research he needed, which, Eames assured him, was probably none. The mark's family would willingly provide information. 

It seemed a simple job, the kind he'd done many times. Yet Eames was clearly hiding something. Anyone else, and Arthur would be running the other way. He knew that Eames would never lead him into a dangerous situation without warning him. That wasn't in question. But it was something, and Arthur didn't like secrets.

The endless flight over, a day and a half ago, had drained him and made his knee ache. An overnight stay in a hotel hadn't given them much time to rest before they were on this long drive up to who knew where (well, Eames knew where. Actually, Arthur did too, Eames had told him the general location of the workspace. But it meant nothing to him because he didn't know the area.)

"Almost there," Eames said, as if sensing his discomfort.

"Will anyone else be there?" He wanted to know which face he should put on; if he needed to be the calm professional, if he needed to be vigilant, or if he could just act as fucking irritated as he was. Because he was allowed to act irritated and worried when Eames was around, but with most others, he tried to hide it.

"Just us for the first day," Eames said. "They'll be moving the mark into home care tomorrow. We'll wait till they're settled, do the quick extraction, and be out by dinnertime."

 _There's something you're not telling me,_ Arthur wanted to say. But he didn't, because Eames had a reason. He would probably tell him later, or after the job. Maybe it was someone Eames knew. Maybe it was some emotional attachment he had to the case. 

They went up a wide, straight, tree-lined road. Fog obscured some of the path, but it was a clean street. Arthur liked it so far, for practical reasons. If they did end up having to run (unlikely, according to Eames,) these roads offered a safe, easy getaway. Arthur took note of a few dirt-lined backroads that were good for making quick turns, if it came to that. The trees that lined the street were unkempt, but still budding. 

The farther they went, the more unkempt the trees became. The paved road gave way to gravel, then to dirt, then to nothing. The path Eames drove over now looked like it had only just been cleared, maybe a few months ago. 

Ancient pines loomed over thick brush. Phone and electricity lines stopped showing up. The path they were taking looked inhospitable. Unlivable, even. There was no way, Arthur realized, that any rich family was taking a 93 year old bedridden woman to live here. There was no electricity.

He looked sharply at Eames, who kept his eyes on - well, not the road, since there wasn't one. He definitely looked nervous now.

"Eames, what…"

"Here we are, then," Eames said. He nodded his head over the top of a hill. 

Arthur faced forward and looked ahead. As they crested the hill, he saw the house.

It was old, second empire Victorian, though it looked like over the years a few people had tried to update it. It still had the original mansard roof, with an iron trim. And a fucking square tower that made his jaw drop. Arched doors and dormer windows, _fuck_ , this place was too cool for anyone who was currently living in it, he was sure. It looked like the Addams Family house.

To the west of it, a smaller house stood atop a steep slope. Actual servant's quarters. Around the side of it, there was an honest-to-god carriage entrance.

Eames drove the car through two broken, swinging iron gates, then through a nest of weeds that came nearly up to the windows.

 _No one lives here_ , Arthur thought. He glanced over at Eames, who, again, fixed his eyes straight ahead. 

Eames stopped the car and got out without a word, heading to the back to get their stuff from the trunk. (' _The boot'_ , as Eames insisted.) Arthur opened his door and hobbled out to help. His knee was really starting to ache from being still for too long; a little walking would help.

"Eames," Arthur said, unable to wait any longer to ask him what was up.

"Here, then, can you manage the PASIV?" Eames cut him off. "Or is your leg bothering you?"

"Let me help," Arthur sighed. Eames had his whole head inside the trunk, digging around and trying to pull bags and suitcases out from under other bags and suitcases. 

Arthur grabbed the PASIV, which was wedged under a bunch of other stuff, and pulled. It came free more easily than he thought and he almost toppled backwards. His elbow came into sharp contact with what he was pretty sure was Eames's crotch, and judging by the garbled, surprised noise from behind him, it probably was.

"Oh shit, sorry," Arthur said.

"No harm done," Eames gritted out. "Make it up to me later. Here. Why not let me get it."

Arthur bent over to pick up his overnight bag, as Eames leaned into the trunk and knocked his ass into Arthur's head, almost sending him sprawling.

"Sorry darling," Eames said. 

Arthur straightened up and sighed. This was way too awkward, with his knee twinging in pain, and Eames acting like something was up. There was no coordination between them with this hidden thing going on. 

"Can we save this clusterfuck for later?" Arthur said. "I have to pee." He didn't, but it would get them into the house.

"Yes, good idea," Eames said. "Why don't we just go inside." His lips turned up slightly at the corners and he turned away quickly, leading the way. 

When Eames took a toothpick out of his pocket and popped it into his mouth, Arthur knew he was nervous, secretive smile or not. They went up the shoddy porch stairs, the railings covered in peeling paint, and Eames produced a key to a lock that looked suspiciously new on the old door. Something fluttered and squirmed in Arthur's chest, something he had figured out, but didn't want to blurt out yet in case he was wrong and just being an asshole.

Eames swung the door open and, when he saw that Arthur was leaning on the railing and heavily favoring his uninjured leg, he slung an arm around his waist and practically lifted him off the ground as they went through the door.

"What's with the chivalry?" Arthur said.

"When am I not chivalrous," Eames deadpanned.

"You came in my hair last night," Arthur reminded him.

Eames gave him his best charming, crooked grin. "I did try to warn you." 

Arthur sighed, long-suffering, and did not deign to reply. Instead he took a look around. 

The inside of the house was just as awesome as the outside. A few people had made a few mistakes with the architecture here and there. He could see where there had been an arched doorway that had been torn down in favor of clean lines and art deco. Someone had lived here in the 20s, that was for sure.

The best part, the part that instantly drew his eye to it, was the wooden, spiral staircase.

"Um," Eames said, rubbing at the back of his head. Another nervous gesture. "There's a generator. That's why there were no power lines. It's a new model."

Arthur turned to him slowly. "The job, Eames?" _Is there one?_ he wanted to ask, but he didn't, because he didn't want to jump to conclusions, even though he already had.

"Yeah, that," Eames said, looking anywhere but at Arthur. "Right, so possibly this hasn't been my most brilliant idea. But, yes, here we are. There's no job. Just us. So. Now let's see. I've got a few…" He went casting around in his pockets for something, and drew out some folded papers. Finally, he looked at Arthur. "Last year we were talking about going halves on a safe-house. I thought that after this last thing that happened, a safe-house where we could lie low after a dangerous job would be a good idea. Some place that we could get to either separately or together, at any time, for any reason. I thought I'd let you have a look around first, to see if you think this place will do. You're better at that sort of thing than I am." He fluttered the papers in Arthur's general direction. "If you don't think this is the right location for something like that, or if you find any tactical flaws, umm. These papers are nothing more than forgeries so it's as easy as shredding them."

The tightness in Arthur's chest eased into something pleasant. "Yeah," he said, "I will take a look around, actually. It looks pretty good so far. I liked the routes here and back."

"Yeah, thought you might," Eames said. Again moving the toothpick around between his teeth, again nervously rubbing the back of his head. "So, this is the great room, as you can imagine."

The only furniture was a new-looking sofa, dark blue, and an ornate end table beside it that didn't look like it had come out of a factory.

"Stolen?" Arthur asked, pointing to it.

" _Borrowed_ ," Eames said. "If you don't like it, I promise to return everything."

However, a brand new flat-screen television stood propped up against the wall as if it had just been plonked there in a hurry. That didn't look borrowed at all; that was probably for keeps. 

The dark-blue drapes over the windows were threadbare and probably from the 70s, suggesting that any changes Eames had made here had been on the fly, probably right before coming to Hawai'i. He'd probably only had a few hours to set this up. They clashed horribly with the lighter blue of the walls, and eventually Arthur was going to have to take care of this, but his first priority was making sure the safe-house was actually strategically safe and structurally sound, before thinking about what it looked like. Even though for the most part it looked fucking awesome.

Next to the television stood a square structure, about waist-high. A white sheet hid it from view, but Arthur had the distinct feeling that he knew what it was. Unable to help himself, he went to it and whipped the cover off.

As he'd thought, there stood an old, vintage turntable. There were even records stacked up beside it, some of them 78s. They were old, like the record player, but in good condition.

Arthur turned back to look at Eames, who was standing in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets, trying to look nonchalant. "Thank you," Arthur said.

"Oh, that old thing," Eames said. "Found that on Craig's List while I was still in Russia. I didn't have it delivered, don't worry about that. I went and picked it up, is all. No one knows of this place. It's not registered at any post offices. It's forgotten."

Arthur felt, for the first time in probably many years, strangely bashful. He had to force himself to keep eye contact even as he felt himself growing warmer. "You give me a lot of gifts," he said, then cleared his throat through the sudden tightness.

Eames looked slightly flustered himself. "You took me to Hawai'i. And to Russia, regardless of how that turned out."

"You did all this research," Arthur said, gesturing around towards the house.

"Well," Eames said, "you do research all the time, of the sort that keeps your team alive. My little spot of searching around for a safe-house is nothing compared to that."

"It's not nothing," Arthur said, with maybe a bit more feeling than he had meant to. 

Eames grinned and looked down at the stained throw rug. It was really a horrible throw rug, Arthur thought, now that he was looking at it too.

"Have a look at the rest of it before you decide," Eames said.

"Yeah, I will. Care to show me?"

Eames took him first into the kitchen, which had an electric stove and oven that needed a hell of an update. The cabinets were still good. A mini-fridge and freezer hummed in the corner, probably the best Eames could find on short notice. The kitchen had wood floors, a little warped in front of the sink but nothing dangerous. There were to guest rooms and a downstairs master bedroom with an attached bath.

"The good one is upstairs," Eames said, "but you might want to see the cellar, first?"

"Sure."

The cellar was typical of homes like this, with double doors on the outside that could use replacing. The inside was unfinished, with a cement floor. A wine rack stood in one corner. Arthur knocked on the wooden pillars, then found an old broom handle and shoved and prodded the beams that ran across the ceiling. They seemed sound. He looked everywhere for mud-trails that termites would make, and found none. 

The house itself might have looked a bit worn, daunting and perhaps intimidating, but the foundation was solid and sure.

When they were done in the basement, they went up the creaking stairs to the kitchen and then, finally, Eames led him up the winding staircase to a long hallway. A torn, faded rug ran the length of the corridor, but the remains of a few gas light fixtures were what got Arthur's attention. That, and the square alcove of the tower at the end of the hall. It was beautiful.

Eames saw him staring. "The thing with houses like this," Eames said, "is the location. You can't make it on the kind of salary you'd get if you lived here. But if you've already made your cash, and you want to get away from people…you know?"

"It's perfect," Arthur said. Then, "Show me the bedroom?"

Eames gave him a grin that told Arthur he was going to love this, and led the way.

The wallpaper had to go, but the original floors, unmarked, were still in this room, too. And better, the original bed still stood in the center of the room. Four posts of scrolling oak and a solid headboard. 

"Oh, fuck me on this," Arthur said, grinning. Yet even as he said it, he was checking out the sorry state of the mattress. It was filthy, stained, torn up, and probably crawling with bugs.

"Don't think so quite yet," Eames said.

Arthur turned to him and stared, again just admiring. Eames's eyes were almost blue in this light instead of their usual green-grey. It probably would have been enough that Arthur _liked_ him, but for him to be standing there being so hot, on top of that, and in this really incredible house - well, he thought he was behaving himself quite decently, all things considered.

"Christ, Arthur, control yourself," Eames said.

"What? I didn't say anything."

"You're giving me sex-eyes again."

"That's just how I look." He was about to go on, when he caught sight of a tiny, gleaming thread over Eames's shoulder. At the end of it, a fat, round spider dangled just by his ear. It dropped onto the back of his shirt. "Eames," Arthur said, "just hold on. Don't move, don't freak out."

Eames's eyes widened as he said, "What?"

Arthur crossed to his back and tried to grab at the web. Eames figured out what he was doing and let out a yelp about two octaves higher than his normal voice. His arms flailed and he danced around saying, "Fuck, fuck! Get it off, whatever it is!"

"Hold still," Arthur ordered him. 

He cupped the spider in his hand, its spindly, prickly legs clinging to his palm.

"Did you get it?" Eames asked.

"I got it, you sissy."

"Throw it out the fucking window," Eames said, shuddering all over. The hair on his arms was standing up.

"No. You can't drop them that far; they'll break." He opened his palm and looked at the spider. It was a fat orb weaver, benign enough. It took a few tentative steps up his hand, then scurried to his wrist and up his arm. He cupped it in his other hand and then took it to the window, where he set it on the sill. Maybe it would catch some bugs there.

"You're letting it stay," Eames said, in that way he had of making questions sound like exasperated observations.

"Eames, there's got to be about ten thousand spiders in this house, just one more isn't going to make a difference. There are probably at least a hundred in that mattress alone. I walked through five webs on my way down the stairs to the cellar, for fuck's sake. If you looked into the walls, you'd find thousands of them. You can't really get rid of them. Besides, this kind doesn't really want to sting you, they just want to be left alone. The only spider you have to worry about up here is the brown recluse. Those will fuck you up."

"Suppose there are any in this house?" Eames asked.

Arthur couldn't hold back a laugh. "Who knows? They could be anywhere. I can't believe you took down a train of bad guys and ran across the top, next to a fucking _cliff_ , and you scream like a five year old over spiders. Jesus. I'd think that bullets and five-hundred-foot drops would hurt a little worse."

"They're crawly," Eames said, by way of explanation.

"I have an affinity for spiders," Arthur said. "You just have to learn to live with them."

"Right," Eames said, glancing around nervously, frowning and fretful.

"Show me the barn and the generator," Arthur said.

Eames led the way again, this time outside and to the barn. Dusk had fallen and it was getting harder to see anything in the dim light. The barn was old, but not as old as the house, clearly a later addition to it. The shingles here were a worn brown, shoddy and in need of replacement. The roof probably leaked too, but Arthur wasn't going to be storing hay in there any time soon. Probably wasn't going to be storing anything in there aside from the genny.

Inside, a few bare light bulbs dangled from the rafters. Eames found the switch and hit it, but none of the lights came on. Clearly no one had been here in years. It was only by the last of the day's light that Arthur could take a look around.

He went to the genny and checked it over. It was, in fact, brand new. Eames had obviously brought it up here himself, probably in a mad rush. 

"Nice," Arthur said, crouching down on his good knee and appraising it.

He looked up to the lofts, where a grimy square window let in a bit more light. Then he looked again to the rafters and at first wasn't sure what he was seeing.

"Are those meathooks?" he asked Eames, gesturing to the long, curved, rusted pieces of metal that hung down along one wall.

"Looks like they are," Eames said. "Guess we can do without them. Unless you're into something kinky."

Arthur was into plenty of kinky shit, but meathooks did not figure into his fantasies. He gave Eames a side-eye and saw that he was standing in the doorway, still looking unsure, with his hands in his pockets.

"Well, it looks great," Arthur said. "Everything, I mean."

"That's good. Also, there's a stream up the hill back there. A kind of pond further back. It's got ducks and such."

"Sounds nice," Arthur said. He didn't give a shit about ducks. He gave a shit about how solid this house looked and how far off the map it was. He gave a shit about the fact that it didn't have an address and offered a place to hide out, and also some good escape routes. He gave a shit that he could probably meet Eames here, if he ever called on him from across the world. That their usual plan of splitting up after a dangerous job and then meeting in random places around the globe could change to something safer.

"'Tis nice," Eames said.

"It all looks good, is what I'm saying," Arthur said. 

Eames came over and wordlessly offered him a hand as he was getting up. It was getting dark now, probably time to get out of the barn before they stepped on a nail in the dark and got tetanus or something. 

"So, you're in, then?" Eames asked.

"Yeah," Arthur said. "I'm in." 

"Good. I'll go ahead and finish the papers, then?" Still unsure.

Arthur pulled him out of the barn, into what was left of the light. "Eames. I'm in. Yes, finish the papers."

Eames smiled at him. "Right, then. I'll actually go and get on that now." He turned to make his way back to the house.

Before he got to the porch, Arthur reached out and gently trailed a finger down the back of his neck. Again, Eames cried out in a high voice and jumped away from him.

Arthur laughed until he was doubled up, tears streaming from his eyes, and ribs spasming. He had to take a second to collect himself, while Eames just scowled at him, threatened him, and called him a fucking tosser.

At the door of the house, on the porch with chipped paint, Arthur's conscience caught up with him. He took Eames by the arm and dragged him close. What started out as a placating "sorry I teased you" kiss on the temple quickly turned heated and breathless. Arthur had him by the belt-loops on the back of his pants and felt his self-control slipping. He wanted to push him down onto the warped wooden steps, pin him, and make him forget about spiders. The impracticality of this idea vaguely occurred to him, so he slowed down, limiting himself to nipping kisses.

"You're too much, Arthur," Eames said, when Arthur let him breathe again.

"How did I get you?" Arthur asked. "How did I manage this?"

Eames drew back and looked at him curiously. "Shall I list the ways?"

"No," Arthur said. "I don't really need to know."

"You don't want to hear that you're brilliant, the best there is, that I've no fear when I need to put my safety in your hands?"

"No," Arthur said. His curiosity was general and didn't require praise.

"Or that I think you're beautiful and you look as smashing in swimming trunks as you do in thousands of pounds worth of suits? That your accuracy and competence get me hotter than anything?"

"Jesus, no," Arthur said, laughing a little.

"I'm smitten with you, Arthur. Have been for years, that's why I had to seduce you."

"Oh fuck, here we go again with this," Arthur said. "I seduced _you_. You basically just said so yourself."

"You _attracted_ me," Eames clarified, pressing his hand between Arthur's shoulder blades and pulling him closer even as he argued the point. "But it was I who instigated the affair."

"Right," Arthur said. "You instigated it with my hand reaching into your pants."

"More or less, Arthur, as I was the one who put your hand there."

"You're so full of shit," Arthur said, "or you were too drunk to remember. Okay, maybe you guided my hand, a little, but only after it was already down there."

"I definitely had my hand on your hand before it went into my pants."

"When you say 'pants,'" Arthur said, "do you mean trousers or underwear?"

"I wasn't even wearing what you call 'underwear' that night," Eames said. "It's your memory that is in question here."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Okay, well either way, I was definitely feeling you up before you even knew what hit you. I seduced you."

"I was the one who asked you out for drinks."

"I go out with my teams all the time," Arthur said, "and it never ends with me jerking any of them off. I only did that with you. And these last few years, you're the only one." It was out before he realized it, yet again, and it was the most basic truth.

Eames drew back a little, too close to comfortably look him in the eyes but still doing so anyway. Arthur created a little space between them too, as Eames searched him out for something. He didn't know what.

"I know that," Eames said. "It's true for me too. I mean, here we are, right? Making this investment, sharing a safe house. I've never considered doing such a thing with anyone else. And I haven't really desired anyone else in quite a long time, either. I've got an Arthur, you see. Anyone else seems a bit superfluous."

"That can always change," Arthur said. He felt suddenly afraid, cold, as he said it. But logic and practicality were important to him. He wasn't some 16 year old sap, he was an adult who knew how things went. The best of things sometimes went south. It was the way of life.

"Of course," Eames said. "Anything can change. Look at Mal and Cobb. Good things end all the time, no matter how true you think them at the time. But now. Here, and now, I can tell you that I haven't wanted to fuck anyone else or even to really waste my time going to Russia or Hawai'i with anyone else. No one can make an actual vow that nothing will ever change between them. That promise doesn't exist."

"I agree," Arthur said.

"But that doesn't mean you can't enjoy what you've got. And what I can tell you is this: Should this thing we have ever change, or should we ever want to end it, you'll still have my loyalty on the job and off of it. I will never sell you out." Eames pulled him closer, stroked his hair the way that Arthur had come to first endure, and later enjoy. "If we were in our nineties and still going on like this, snogging like teenagers on a porch, I wouldn't have any complaints. But I won't ask it of you because you can't promise it and neither can I. I won't force you into a vow to grow old with me. But I'll do my damnedest to see that you do grow old."

"I can give you the same promise," Arthur said. "I'll always have your back. And if this ever ends, I'll still never betray you. You'll always have my respect as a colleague. And you'll always have my protection. I know it's been like that for a few years with us, but now's a good time to say it." 

The magnitude of the words hit him. It was so much more meaningful than a few rounds of vigorous sex every few months. A vow like this, between career criminals, carried more weight than any piece of paper they could ever sign. It was a promise that even Dom and Mal couldn't keep. The words were heavy, but not a burden. Instead, Arthur felt like something had been lifted off of him. When he next kissed Eames, it was with the kind of joy and abandon he associated only with him.

"Let's go in," Eames said, lowering his head to press his lips to the open V of Arthur's shirt. "I've got those frozen things you call 'pizzas' in the freezer." He kissed lightly under his jaw. "And I bought alcohol as well, so we can drink on it."

"That sofa is new enough, right?" Arthur asked. 

"Yes," Eames said against his neck, "no stains or diseases, safe for shagging on."

"Maybe I just wanted to sit down," Arthur said into his hair.

Eames lifted his face and laughed against his cheek. "You're full of shit. Come on, then."

With a glance off to the east, Arthur saw the moon rising over the carriage house on the hill. The tree-frogs came awake, singing in the distance. Yes, Arthur thought, this house would do just fine as a safe-house. A place for both of them to rest. 

He took Eames's hand as they went inside.

 

\--End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading this. And my enduring gratitude to all of the readers who more or less wrote this piece with me.
> 
> BONUS. [ Beautiful art](http://sweetsigh.livejournal.com/10719.html) from livejournal user [Sweetsigh!](http://sweetsigh.livejournal.com/)
> 
> And Lj user [EnoughGlitter](http://enoughglitter.livejournal.com/) did TWO pieces of art for this. The amazing rendition of [Arthur and Eartha in the blizzard,](http://i903.photobucket.com/albums/ac239/Cerencae/Arthurforsho_no_tabi.jpg) and then a companion piece to that, [Arthur at the beach.](http://i903.photobucket.com/albums/ac239/Cerencae/Arthur-sho-warm.jpg)
> 
> Gorgeous!


End file.
